Letting Go
by drjekyllmshyde
Summary: A Russian ballerina finds herself at the newly reformed Palais Garnier, and experiences a quite literal run-in with the building's resident Ghost. Erik/OC. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** These two chapters are the result of being unable to sleep even after taking a Benadryl. Apparently it keeps me up rather than putting me out. Who knew? Anyway I thought I'd post them and get some feedback on them... but I reserve the right to change them dramatically. I've already edited the heck out of them today, but this is the basic introduction for the story I mentioned I was considering in an Author's Note during my Italy-centered fic. Let me know if you like it, and when I'm feeling well again I might just continue it, but I might also scrap the project. Not sure yet, still feeling too sick to decide.

It was early in the spring of 1885 when Anya Chekov first set foot in Paris, fresh off a train from St. Petersburg and eager for a new start. While she only intended to stay in Paris long enough to afford a ticket to America, she found herself questioning her dreams. Perhaps it was a foolish idea to arrive in Paris in the spring; the city was so beautiful, she couldn't imagine ever wanting to leave!

But life in Paris was not as beautiful as the city itself. It was nearly impossible to find work with no skills other than grace and beauty. For a month she worked as a governess for a wealthy family in the city, before the husband of said family began to make shameful advances on her and she was promptly fired by the lady of the house. For another month she went door to door, begging families to let her teach their daughters to dance; she had been a prima ballerina in Russia, she promised, and was quite an excellent teacher. In these hard times though, families were simply not purchasing tutors for their children. Food and wine were more important than art, Anya seethed quietly.

On the last day of her third month in Paris, Anya returned to her little apartment to find she had been evicted. Her few belongings were left outside the door, already having been rummaged through by the street urchins in the area. For the first time in over a year, Anya sat down and cried. How foolish it was to cry over something so trivial, after all she had been through! But all of her pitfalls had only served to remind her of how completely and utterly alone she truly was in the world.

Anya was only on the street three days when she was passing by a church as the Sunday mass let out. A pair of wealthy gentlemen strode out with their wives on their arms, already having forgotten the sermon in favor of gossip. Anya straightened her hair in a window, and wiped her face clean with her only surviving handkerchief before approaching the two couples. "What a wonderful sermon today, wasn't it?" She praised, although she had not dared set foot in a church without having bathed for three days.

One of the men smiled politely while his wife eyed her as though she were nothing more than a stray dog. "Why yes, it was Madame. I especially enjoyed the talk on charity," the man announced to the group. "Why Moncharmin and I were just discussing charity the other day."

"We were, weren't we?" Exclaimed the man who must have been Moncharmin. "How ironic, wouldn't you say?"

"I would venture so far as to call it fate," Anya suggested, and the pair looked at each other and laughed.

"What a charming notion. What was your name, Madame?"

"Chekov, Anya Chekov," she smiled, curtsying politely with a dancers grace that made both of the men glance at one another sideways.

The woman on Moncharmin's arm widened her eyes enormously. "A Russian! Oh how splendid! I've never seen a Russian before. Why, I bet under all that dirt and grim she's simply stunning."

"You're too kind, Madame," smiled Anya; smiling in the face of backhanded complements was something every ballerina perfected at a young age.

"I say, she is rather dirty isn't she Richard?"

"Quite," agreed the man who had first spoken. "Madame Chekov, what is your business?"

"Oh, nothing of importance; I am only a dancer Monsieur."

Richard's brow quirked charmingly as he looked to his companion before looking back to the woman. "What on earth is a Russian Ballerina doing in Paris? Not spying on our new ballet I hope?"

Anya's heart began to race. "I know nothing of a new ballet, Monsieur. I've only just arrived. I haven't even had time to wash, I came straight from the train to mass," she lied in a desperate attempt to explain her appearance.

"Then what brings you to Paris, Madame?" The woman on Moncharmin's arm asked brightly. "And where is your husband? I should like to see what a Russian gentleman looks like!"

"...My husband is dead, Madame," Anya explained, twisting the wedding band on her finger as she absently glanced at the floor. "That is why I am here."

"Escaping the memory of your lost love, très romantique!" The woman exclaimed. "Armand, I know you've already cast the ballet but surely you could find a place for our new friend?"

The man called Moncharmin looked to the other man, who was hesitant. "I don't know that we can recast the entire ballet, not without seeing her abilities."

"Then give me a job doing anything, I will sweep floors if I have to until the next audition. You will not be sorry to have me in your employ, Messieurs," she told them before instantly biting the inside of her cheeks; she had sounded far too desperate for employ.

"Ha!" Exclaimed the woman on Richard's arm, who had been eying her warily the whole while. "I knew I had not seen her in church! She hasn't just arrived at all, she came to the door over a week ago asking if we had any children she could teach to dance!"

Anya gaped like a fish out of water while the men gave her a hard look. "…I am sorry for my lie, Messieurs. I pray you will forgive me, for it is the only lie I have told to you today. My husband is truly dead, and I truly am a dancer, but I arrived in Paris three months ago. I had expected to find work by now, but I have found nothing. I was evicted three days ago because I could not pay the rent and eat. And sir, I am a dancer! I do not eat much," she added, hoping to express the direness of her situation.

Moncharmin pulled his friend off away from their women, who looked miffed that they were not being included. They spoke in whispers for what felt like hour before returning. "In light of today's sermon on charity, and our recent discussion of that very subject, my partner and I have decided to offer you a job. Recently our night custodian had an accident and will not be rejoining us, and we suspect the boy we hired in his place is stealing. He will be fired, and you will take his place. I trust you can sweep and mop a stage?"

"I can, Messieurs," she answered eagerly. She had never tried, but she could sweep and mop in her apartment in St. Petersburg, and didn't imagine it would be any different.

"Good," announced Richard. "For your service you will be provided with a room at the Opera, and pay enough to eat. Once the next auditions come around, you will be free to audition as any of the other ballerinas. You may begin tonight at eleven in the evening, I'll let the night watch know you're coming."

Anya smiled and curtsied deeply. "You kind Messieurs! Too kind!"

So began Anya's career at the opera. It was not glorious, but it gave her a bed to sleep in and food to eat.

The evening Anya Chekov first met the Opera Ghost, she never arrived to her shift. In her explorations of the theatre, the woman had found a quiet, private little room she enjoyed using before work. Effortlessly she lifted her leg above her head, holding it in place as she lifted up onto the pointes of her toes in ratty old ballet slippers. How good it felt to stretch! Anya was infinite grateful for the opportunity to live and work for a ballet company, but for all its vastness the Palais Garnier could feel so… cramped. Living in a dormitory with several of the seamstresses who had not been able to afford their rent, she was beginning to feel claustrophobic, and wondered if anyone would notice if she took over this room instead; it was large and dusty, but it had a nice divan and a large mirror perfect for correcting her form in. After work she was done cleaning the stage, she would dance on it, spreading out like she so longed to do even if she had to dance alone for now.

Taking a breath, the woman pulled back the leg she held above her head and lean forward, attempting to remember how it felt to be perfectly parallel with the ground while still on pointe. She stayed there for a long moment, perfectly balanced before planting both feet on the ground gracefully and repeating the stretch with the other leg.

The clock struck eleven and Anya's heart sank. "Merde!" She cursed, only having been in France for half a year now but picking up the language (proper and improper) rapidly. Quickly the woman slipped out of her slippers and into her work boots before bolting out the door.

Anya fell hard as she ran into a tall, solid mass in her path. "I'm sorry Monsieur! Please forgive me! I am not usually so clumsy, you really must forgive me!" She begged, pulling herself to her feet and diverting her eyes downwards out of embarrassment. Although she could not see the figure she had run into headlong, her other senses were on fire; how fine was the quality of his shirt! And what was that smell… it reminded her of the churches in St. Petersburg, old and musty, but still sweet and familiar. But where had he gone? She must have run into someone, to have set her senses on edge so.

Suddenly Anya felt very uncomfortable… like she was being watched by someone, or something, that did not want to be seen.

"Monsieur? I didn't hurt you did I?" She ventured, though she was beginning to question her sanity; perhaps she had run into the wall, and not a man? "Monsieur?"

"You are the new street rat the managers hired, aren't you?" Demanded a voice suddenly from just behind her, condescendingly. Anya whirled around, wondering how the man had possibly managed to move past her without her noticing.

"I am, Monsieur," she answered, trying her best not to be offended by the remark. "I beg your forgiveness, Monsieur, but really, if you're all right I must go or I'll be terribly late," she explained and he voice was quiet for an uncomfortably long moment.

"…All right, you may go," it informed her like a master dismissing his slave. Anya did not take well to that, not by a man she couldn't see.

"Where are you? Why can't I see you?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to," warned the voice in such a manner that every hair on the back of Anya's neck stood straight.

This didn't stop her. "Are you the Opera Ghost the ballerinas have warned me about? You are, aren't you! Why I have half a mind to-" before she could finish her thought, she crumpled against the tall black figure she had run into earlier as he held a handkerchief dipped in chloroform over her mouth and nose.


	2. Chapter 2

L'Opera Garnier was no longer an Opera House. The French and their love for the ballet! That horrible, clumsy art created by horrible, clumsy people! From that year forward the Palais Garnier would perform ballet almost exclusively, unless rented out for some other purpose. It was cheaper to perform ballets, the managers noticed, without the lofty fees virtuosic singers charged. Without having to house, feed, and pay a cast, performances became virtually pure profit! The little ballet rats paid to live in the dormitories and be taught, and collected only a meager salary, and even giving the stagehands a small raise increased the profits more than one hundred fold.

The increased profits of the ballet allowed the managers to hire a generally more skillful staff, something the Opera Ghost was admittedly pleased about. Most of the lesser talented orchestra members had been promptly sacked in favor of more skillful musicians, something that the Ghost had actually praised the managers for in spite of his rage at the loss of the Opera.

What a waste ballet was! The ballet was like watching newborn calves stumble around the stage. Ballerinas were hideous little things, the Opera Ghost thought to himself as he watched them practice one afternoon. They were at terribly homogenized breed, with awkwardly long limbs, high waists and small torsos, no breasts of any substance, long necks and small heads. For the most part, their looks made girls awkward and gangly, like pale little African giraffes.

One of the new members of the staff did not fit this mold, however. The woman the managers hired to replace the boy they had caught stealing after their custodian of nearly ten years was killed for sport (made to look like an accident, of course), was singularly remarkable to watch. The Ghost could still remember the day he first saw her upon the stage, dancing with a broom as if it were a soon to be departed lover. She was built the same as any other ballerina, but with such different style… Russian, the Ghost had noticed, with strong, clean lines that still somehow appeared to be effortless. The Russians were known for the strength and power in their dance, as opposed to the mindless grace the French attempted and often failed at.

The Ghost had watched her dance several times, having first noticed her out of the corner of his eye as he returned to his dwelling below the theatre. He was compelled to watch by her beauty and power, and by the heart wrenching loneliness her movements conveyed. He could remember nearly calling out to her as she was nearly swallowed up by the stage, if only so she would know she was not alone in the darkness.

While on his way back to his dwelling below the theatre one night, the very same lonely little dancer ran into him head long, rounding a corner directly into his chest. Panic and anxiety filled his blood, and the Ghost immediately lived up to his name and vanished into the shadows of the hallway, fingering the thing string of catgut rope tied neatly around his belt, hoping silently she would simply think herself clumsy and walk away.

But she didn't. ""Monsieur? I didn't hurt you did I? Monsieur?"

"You are the new street rat the managers hired, aren't you?" He sneered, throwing his voice behind her to cause her to turn away from him and watching with cruel delight as she turned in confusion. Perhaps she wasn't so different from those stupid little ballet rats after all. Pretty enough but without a single ounce of sense.

"I am, Monsieur," The Ghost nearly laughed allowed at how offended she was by the remark, marking it as a personal triumph; if he couldn't manage to kill the girl he could at least wound her pride a little. "I beg your forgiveness, Monsieur, but really, if you're all right I must go or I'll be terribly late."

It was now or never… it would be so easy. The catgut seemed to have a will of its own these days, wrapping itself around the necks of people who would never be missed. Snapping the frail neck of a misplaced ballerina would be effortless. So why did it feel wrong? 'When have you become concerned with the difference between right and wrong?' The Ghost asked himself. 'Just a month ago you hanged a man for no reason, but it is 'wrong' to kill a dirty street rat?'

It is wrong to kill a kindred spirit, he reasoned quietly. A fellow artist, albeit in a far less respectable art, who was by what he could tell nearly as out of place and alone as he was. And besides, he had never killed a woman before… would he be able to start now? He had been seen by the little ballet rats in the past and had allowed them all to live, why was it necessary to kill a working woman? It simply wasn't.

"…All right, you may go," he announced after a long period of silence, apparently not the answer the woman wanted to hear.

"Where are you? Why can't I see you?" She pried, stupidly.

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to," the Ghost warned the girl for both their sakes, eager for her to leave and forget she had ever run into him. He wanted more than anything to disappear into the darkness and be lost to the world once more... but that was not going to happen, not tonight.

"Are you the Opera Ghost the ballerinas have warned me about? You are, aren't you! Why I have half a mind to-" This set The Ghost off, and in a half-second motion he took his handkerchief and dipped onto it a trace amount of chloroform he kept on his person in case of just such an emergency. The girl crumpled against him. He had originally planned to just leave the girl and make his escape, but suddenly it was all he could do not to prop her up against one of the walls and rape her on the spot. A woman in his arms! Even if she was unconscious, it was a glorious feeling to hold such a supple, if dangerously inquisitive beast in such a way. But he must show a little self control… at least until they were down out of the public eye. Then perhaps he would finally indulge himself and take the only thing women were of use for. Rather than simply leave her sleeping form to wake with a chloroform headache in an hour or two, the Ghost gathered up the girl and began to move in the shadows.

The Ghost carried her light frame down through the underbelly of the theatre, to a world that would never see the sun. The woman began to stir, much to The Ghost's upset; he would have to drug her again once they were inside. Though perhaps a struggling victim might be enjoyable, he thought wildly. If he was going to commit a rape, why not thoroughly enjoy it?

The woman clutched her head some as he picked her up once more, pressing a hidden leaver against the otherwise flat wall at the opposite end of the lake to let them inside the dimly lit compound. Home sweet home, he thought, and what a sweet, sweet night it would be.

* * *

Anya looked around as her head throbbed, unfamiliar with this place… or with the masked man who carried her, she realized, heart leaping in her chest in panic. "Who are you? Put me down!"

"You seemed to know exactly who I was an hour ago," purred the man condescendingly, and again Anya's heart fluttered in panic. The Opera Ghost!

"Put me down!" She demanded, struggling fiercely. "My husband will-"

"Your husband?" The Ghost laughed maliciously. "Tell me about your husband," the figure demanded, almost as if he already knew about her husband already.

"He is a strong man, and he carries a gun," she lied. "He would kill you in a moment if he knew you had taken me! Unhand me this moment!"

The Ghost was so amused he decided to put aside his nighttime diversions and play a little cat and mouse first.

"Is he now?" The Ghost asked in a manner that set Anya on edge, though he did set her down on her feet. She looked around wildly for any sort of exit, bolting to the nearest door and flinging it open to find an ordinary little bedroom, something quite unlike what she had expected in the dwelling of a masked kidnapper calling himself the Opera Ghost.

"...Yes, he is," she stated again firmly, gathering her wits as the tall masked figure stood in the doorway of the room she had now trapped herself in. "A soldier, as brave as there ever was. He'll notice I'm missing soon, so you had better return me-"

She was interrupted by an ugly, cruel laugh which caused Anya to hold herself uncomfortably… somehow, her kidnapper knew the truth. "That is not the story I heard," announced the masked figure in sing-song as he ventured forward into the room. "I heard your husband was an artist, and a coward, but I do believe he was very capable with a gun, was he not?"

"Stop it…" She demanded as the man approached her, covering her ears against his words and backing away. The Ghost did not relent, delighted by her upset and rapidly forgetting his desire to abuse her lithe little body in favor of abusing her cracked mind.

"So I heard correctly! I cannot imagine how horrible it must have been for an artist to go blind. A painter, wasn't he? Oh, how it must have ruined him!"

"No, stop it!" Anya demanded once more, closing her eyes tight against the sight of the man as she stumbled back against the bed, but now her mind was filled with visions of red as the monster in front of her continued to speak.

"Unable to appreciate the beauty of the pattern the back of his head created on the wall when he blew his brains out-" Suddenly Anya threw herself at the man in a rage, pounding on his chest ferociously.

"You're a monster, a sick, twisted animal!" She shouted at him as she beat on his chest. "Don't speak as if you knew my husband! NEVER speak as if you knew my husband! He was a good man!"

The Ghost was so taken aback by her rage he had no idea how to react; he had not been attacked by a woman before, not in this manner. It was… pathetic. Endearing, almost. The woman collapsed at his feet, too upset to even weep. She sat on the floor in agony, no longer caring about the man in front of her or whatever it was he intended for her.

"Do you not have family in Russia?" The man demanded, though Anya knew it was another loaded question.

"You know that I do, Monsieur Fantôme," whispered the woman, not sure how he knew her past so well but knowing that he did. "Why not just say what you mean to say?"

"I would much prefer to hear it from you. You have a sister-"

"Who was having an affair with my husband," she snapped, standing again. "Now if you're quite satisfied, I'm already impossibly late for my shift. Do whatever it is you're going to do with me and either put me out of my misery or take me back."

The Ghost seemed taken aback by her frankness, and was quiet for a long moment. "I brought you here to rape you. But you know that."

This news was met with a small nod, and the ghost could swear there was more gray in her eyes than green now. "I am obviously powerless to stop you. I have no idea where I am, or how I got here. I could be back in Russia for all I know… If it would truly satisfy you, by all means have your way with me, God knows I certainly can't do anything about it. It's not as if you could ruin me anyway, after fifteen years of marriage there's nothing of value between my legs anymore," she grumbled, more to herself than to the man in front of her; why else would her husband have run into the arms of her younger sister?

There was no way he could go through with the act now. The urge was gone, and the woman's words had caused him to think… would it truly satisfy him? What was sex but an exchange of bodily fluids if there was no meaning behind it? He could derive just as much satisfaction from his own hand if that were simply the goal. He had already stripped the girl of any power she had; it didn't seem to him that raping her could harm her any more than his words already had.

He was quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. "I will return you on the condition you tell nobody of what you have seen down here. I am a very… private specter, and I do not desire any visitors," the Ghost explained, and Anya nodded.

"I don't care for idol gossip, Monsieur. You needn't worry about your privacy."

With a quite nod, the masked figure stepped outside of the room allowing Anya to follow him. After several strange movements by one of the parlor walls, the wall seemed to open entirely on its own, allowing them to pass through to a lake beyond.

"How did you..?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."


	3. Chapter 3

Anya woke up the next day wondering if her encounter with the Opera Ghost had all been a dream. It seemed so… surreal. He had been a horrible monster to her, opening young wounds in a cruel, malevolent manner. It was as if the man sought to destroy any trace of goodness in the world, terrifying naïve little ballerinas and kidnapping an innocent woman just for recognizing she was talking to the Opera Ghost. He had intended to rape her! Anya knew there were rapists in the world, but she simply couldn't fathom it; who could possibly find pleasure from overpowering a woman? It wasn't as if women were terribly difficult to overpower, especially not by a man the size of the Opera Ghost, who was nearly a head taller than she was (and she was no short woman).

But had it really happened? Work that night had been quiet as usual, though every little creak of the stage made Anya jump nearly of her skin, expecting her attacker to show up at any moment. He never did though, and when she finished cleaning and the sun came up she returned to her dormitory unhindered. She fell asleep just as the seamstresses were waking up for their day, and was left completely alone in the dormitory to sleep.

She awoke with a stretch, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling for a moment in quiet reflection on the night before. She had half a mind to try and retrace her steps back down to the lake and tell the man off, but she was also far less depressed than she had been the night before and no longer had any desire to die. With another stretch, Anya sat up and put on her slippers before noticing a card on her nightstand, folded neatly over the stem of a single red rose. With a raised brow she tentatively took the card, which bore her name in ugly red penmanship on the front, and a simple note on the inside.

"_My behavior last night was abhorrent. Please accept this_ _gift as an apology._

_-O.G."_

So it had been real. Anya shuddered at the thought that that monster has been so close to her while she slept, but read the note twice out of confusion. He was sorry? He had been so, incredibly cruel to her, Anya was certain he was a lunatic, a madman who had taken up residence in the Opera. If he was capable of wanting to rape her, of learning her past and using it to upset her traumatically, why would he ever be truly sorry for his actions?

Some part of her felt physically ill when she looked at the rose, and Anya was suddenly more afraid now than she had been the night before. The night before had been so… surreal, while it was happening. She had been afraid, but not like this. This rose and the note suddenly made it more… real. More tangible. She held her face in her hands for a long moment before drawing a shaking breath and taking up the rose and the note, depositing both in the garbage on her way out the door to the bathroom.

The day progressed relatively normally. Anya felt jumpier than usual, and decided to go out into the city for the day to enjoy the summer sun. She had absolutely no spending money, but immensely enjoyed browsing the boutiques and markets. St. Petersburg was a beautiful city, but Paris… Paris was center of Europe, with fashion and culture from all over the world attempting to copy whatever was popular in Paris at the time. Every dress she owned had been inspired by this city, but try as they might they still felt painfully short of Parisian gowns.

Anya didn't return to the theatre until the sun set, returning to the dormitory to rest for a few hours before her eleven o'clock shift. At ten, she pulled herself from bed, taking her ballet slippers with her to the large, private room down the hall where she stretched before working and dancing. Elegantly she lifted her leg onto the counter, which was a little higher than a ballet bar but would suffice. She stretched for half an hour before practicing the more fluid stretches of lifting her legs and going onto the pointes of her toes. She finished early tonight to make sure she wouldn't be late to her shift, changing from her ballet slippers into work boots and stepping outside of the room. She had only taken a few steps down the hall before a voice above her stopped her dead.

"I see you got my note," it informed her, dropping the letter at her feet. Anya stiffened.

"I did," she offered carefully, not wanting to anger the man.

"Then you know I found it in the garbage."

"Yes."

"You do not accept my apology?"

Anya took a breath to steady her nerves. "I have a difficult time believing you are truly sorry. I saw no remorse in you last night. Why do you care if I forgive you anyway? You've done your research on me, you know that I am nobody."

"I know that you were a remarkable artist in your day. And I know you do not deserve to be treated the way I treated you last night." Was Anya imagining things, or was there actually… remorse in the monster's voice?

"If you're so sorry, stop being such a coward and tell me so," she challenged, feeling empowered by his apparent remorse. "Face me like a gentleman and ask for my forgiveness, if it's really what you want."

There was a long period of silence, and then a quiet rustling of fabric from in front of her before the looming figure of the masked man who had carried her off the night before came into view, barely distinguishable from the shadows behind him. "Please, Madame, would you forgive me? I am… unwell, to say the least. I was not of sound mind when we last met."

"How do I know you're of sound mind now?" Anya asked, quirking her brow. "I wouldn't say any man wearing a mask is of sound mind."

"…you must trust me when I saw I wear a mask out of necessity and not insanity. It is as much a part of my face as your nose is a part of yours," the Ghost spoke with a direness that almost made Anya feel sorry for the man, and she decided not to push the matter. She was thoughtfully quiet for a moment before nodding.

"Very well, I accept your apology on the condition that it never, ever happens again," she stated firmly, and the man in the mask nodded his agreement to her condition.

"Never again, you have my word."

"Good. Now if you'll excuse me Monsieur Fantôme, I have work I'd like to start on."

The man nodded again and slipped back into the shadows. As Anya walked by where he had been standing, she gave a little sideways glance and furrowed her brow deeply when she saw there was nothing there. But where could he have gone? He was very real, and almost certainly a man, she knew; certainly a specter wasn't solid enough to carry her down through the bowels of the theatre? Then again, men couldn't vanish through walls.

"Can you still here me, Monsieur Fantôme?"

"I can hear everything that goes on in the theatre, Madame," intoned a disembodied voice, pleasantly enough. "What is it that you require?"

The voice sent chills up her spine. "I wish you wouldn't do that, I would be a lot more comfortable if I knew where you were speaking from," she informed him, but continued walking as she spoke. "How did I walk by you just then without seeing you?"

"Why, I am a ghost. Matter isn't quite the same to me as it is to you, ma chère," the voice explained, still the same distance from her as it had seemed before even though she was walking. Anya stopped when she reached the stage to collect her broom and mop bucket, brow furrowed with concern.

"I am not votre chère, Monsieur. I've already accepted your apology, why is it you are sweet talking me?" She demanded, standing up straight again and looking around for the source of the voice. "Why can't you just be frank with me like an honest man, it's horrible the way you go around making people so nervous.

Suddenly the voice was speaking in Russian so naturally that Anya's ears almost did not catch the language change. "I apologize if I have offended you, Madam, I meant nothing by it."

"It's all ri- You are Russian too?" She demanded, sounding more excited than she had meant to. She hadn't realized how homesick she was until hearing her native tongue again.

The voice chuckled lightly. "Alas, no. I am French, but I have traveled the world and learned many of its languages along the way. Russian was one of the more difficult ones; I must admit I am flattered you mistook my accent for a native one."

"You certainly had me convinced! How is it you don't have a French accent when you speak Russian, but I sound terribly thick when I speak French?"

"I learned by immersion, you learned from a book," he stated simply.

"How do you know I learned French from a book? Really Monsieur Fantôme, you know far more about me than I would like, considering I don't know a thing about you."

"It was only deduction, Madame, you needn't fret. If you had learned the way I had, you wouldn't have so strong an accent," the voice explained pleasantly. "As for knowing your history, I confess I researched you when you were first hired. I like to know everything that happens in the theatre, including the histories of its employees."

"Are you really going to make me crane my neck all evening looking for you, or are you going to come down here and actually keep me company while I work?" Demanded the woman suddenly, when she realized she was spending more time trying to locate the disembodied voice than she was sweeping. "You don't fool me, ghost don't have homes a mile under the Opera, not to mention I've seen you twice now."

"I think it is better for both of us that I remain unseen, but if you would like me to leave you alone to work I certainly will," offered the voice, but Anya waved him off.

"Nonsense, I'm eager to hear of what you thought of Mother Russia! Where did you go? Where did you stay? Did you stop and see the Mariinsky Ballet? That is where grew up performing you know, I was accepted in when I was ten and it was my world ever since."

The voice was quiet for a moment. "I'm afraid I didn't see Russia in precisely that manner. I stayed on the outskirts of the major cities, in camps. Sometimes we would travel through the heart of a city, but I was never privileged enough to visit a ballet. I did hear good things about the Mariinsky though," the voice added, absently. "It was always something I wanted to return to see."

"You really ought to, if you get the chance. The quality is superb. The girls here… They are fine enough for the Bolshoi I suppose, but they would never be cast outside of the corps at the Mariinsky. We held our people to the highest standards… Would you listen to me? Praising the Mariinsky as if I still worked for them."

There was a sound of quiet amusion in the voice's tone then. "Clearly you were passionate about your art. Why did you leave then?"

Anya pursed her lips and stared down at the floor as she swept. "You know why I left, and you swore you wouldn't do this again."

"Madame, I honestly am curious but you needn't answer if it upsets you. I know of your troubles there, but your passion for the ballet is evident, as is your talent; I've seen you dance on this stage, before you knew I existed. You are quite a thing to be hold, truly superior to the rats who call themselves ballerinas here. With your talent you were surely a sujet at least."

The woman frowned some, thoughtfully. "I had just achieved Prima Ballerina, actually. I left because I simply… couldn't stay. The apartment my husband and I lived in smelled like blood even after I had cleaned everything spotless. I couldn't sleep without hearing his voice, I couldn't avoid my sister ringing at the door day and night as if she really cared if I was okay. I needed to start a new life, so I packed my things, picked up where I left off with my French in school at the ballet, and came here. Once I've made enough money here I plan to go to America, hopefully to start a ballet academy."

"Madame Chekov? Who are you talking to?" She hadn't realized one of the night watch staring at her from the orchestra pit, coming to inspect the noise from above. Anya was suddenly glad for the dim lighting, for her pale skin turned a very deep shade of red.

"Nobody, Monsieur. I thought I was alone, and was keeping myself company. I'm terribly sorry, it won't happen again," she told the man pleasantly enough, and he smiled and made his way out of the theatre. Why did I lie to him, she wondered. Why not simply say you were speaking with the Opera Ghost, and save yourself the embarrassment? It probably would have made her seem crazier still, come to think of it?

"Well, I'll bet you're glad you never came out Monsieur Fantôme," she chimed to her companion, but was met with silence. The room felt different, lonelier than it had before, and she knew in an instant that she was alone. With a curious brow furrow she turned back to her work, wondering at the nature of her disappointment.


	4. Chapter 4

It was several weeks before Anya heard from the Ghost again. After those two exciting, if frightful days, time began to run together again. Each day was the same as the last; Anya would go to sleep in the morning, wake in the afternoon, and bide her time exploring the theatre or the city before stretching in the unoccupied room and going to work. Every day after work she would dance, moving gracefully about the stage in the dim lighting to music only she could hear, performing for an audience that didn't exist.

How vain she had been in her youth, she reflected, living for the applause and not the art. Anya had not truly appreciated her art until she could no longer perform, she was beginning to realize. How much more valuable were the few short hours she spent on the stage now than the days she spent on the stage in Russia. Her skill was the same, but her passion was renewed. She felt like a little girl again, hungry for every moment she could spend dancing not in order to become the best, but just for the joy of dancing.

The days were all the same until the evening Anya's slippers finally gave out. As she performed a graceful leap across the stage landing on pointe, the support of the shoe cave, causing Anya to collapse with a curse, clutching at her ankle. Her heart sank as she peeled off the slipper, inspecting her split toenail through the tear in her stockings before rolling down her stockings to inspect her ankle. Thank God, it seemed all right. It was not swelling or turning colors. She would have to be careful on it for a few days, and would need new slippers, but it was not a career harming injury.

With a sigh, Anya's attention turned to her ruined slipped. Her salary only allowed for two meals a day, three on Sundays; even skipping every meal for a week, she could not afford to even repair the shoe, let alone purchase a new set. It was heartbreaking to see these shoes go, in more ways than one; they had been the ones she was wearing when she attained Prima Ballerina. She had dazzled many an audience in these shoes, been praised by countless critics with their help… Quietly she prayed that this wasn't a sign, and that unlike her shoes her career was not at an end. Thirty was not too old to start fresh on a new stage… was it?

Anya woke the next morning slowly, as she often did. As her mind slowly went over the events of the night before, she frowned and looked down to find her ruined slippers. Her breath caught in her throat as a pair of perfectly new pointe shoes sat neatly where her ruined ones had been placed the night before. Sitting up in bed and placing her feet on the floor, she was startled to find that her toe had been neatly bandaged in the night. A startled hand covered her mouth to keep herself quiet, not wishing to arouse any suspicion among the seamstresses who were heading out to work. As soon as the lot of them were gone, Anya dressed and took the ballet slippers as far down into the theatre as she could retrace her steps, which was regretfully not as far as she had hoped. When faced with a dead end, she groaned in frustration.

"Why is it I've run into you twice when I have no desire to see you, but now that I need to speak with you you're nowhere to be found?" Anya muttered.

"I hear everything that happens in the theatre; all you need to do is ask for me, and I will find you," remarked a familiar voice from behind her, causing Anya to yelp; she had been quite certain was alone, and was not expecting an answer.

"Monsieur Fantôme, do you get some sort of pleasure out of scaring people half out of their wits?" She demanded, and the voice chuckled some in an obvious answer. "Are you going to make me talk to the walls again or will you address me like a man?"

After a moment of what seemed like hesitation, the tall masked figure materialized from the shadows. "I had thought you would feel more comfortable not trapped between me and a brick wall, but if you insist I will stand where you can see me. You were looking for me?" This idea baffled the Ghost; normally people ran from him. Nobody but the damned Persian had ever sought him out, until now.

"I feel more comfortable in a place where I can see you, brick wall or not. This way if you come at me I can scream so loud the entire theatre will hear and come after you, rather than you putting me out like before," she pointed out with far more confidence than she felt before holding up the slippers. "You did this, didn't you?"

"You flatter yourself if you think anybody but myself or the rats would hear you down here, but yes, those are for you. I saw you destroy yours last night. They were getting on in years, weren't they?"

Anya gaped. "You were watching me last night? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I watch you nearly every night. It's rather like a private performance; I've quite come to enjoy it. I didn't say anything because if I and, you would have stopped dancing. Or worse, you would have jumped out of your skin, fallen, and broken your pretty little neck," he pointed out before cursing at himself wildly in his mind for mentioning how attractive her found her neck.

"And you bandaged my foot too? How did you…" She was at a loss for words, utterly confused by both the madman's act of kindness and the apparent stealth with which he had performed it.

"I made quite sure you were unconscious before bandaging your foot. Otherwise it might have been a little painful. I swear on my life, that is all I did," he added quietly upon seeing the spark of fear on her face. "Your foot was all I touched."

"How am I supposed to believe you? You've drugged me before, and you had to have drugged me last night or I would have woken! You can't just do things to people without their permission, Monsieur… what _is_ your name anyway, surely it's not Monsieur Fantôme!"

The masked man laughed gently, and Anya thought she could see a small portion of his mouth curve into a smile under the mask. "It isn't, but I've come to rather like it. If you must, you may call me Erik."

"Erik, then. You can't just do things to people without their knowledge!" She continued berating, folding her arms.

"Would you have let me fix your foot if I had asked?" Erik pointed out, and Anya thought for a moment.

"Well… No. I don't suppose I would have. But what gives you the right, you're an extortionist, not a physician."

"Neither is an aging dancer. At least under my care your foot won't rot away from infection," The man snapped, and Anya's eyes narrowed at the insult.

"Take them back," she demanded, holding out the shoes for the masked man to take. Erik watched her, confused.

"You need new slippers if you're going to audition."

"I'll find my own pair, I don't want anything you've touched," she informed him harshly, almost immediately regretting her words as his shoulders sank visibly.

"You would turn down the opportunity to dance because I've touched the shoes?"

Anya bit her lip some and sighed. Why did she suddenly feel sorry for the man? "…No. That was a cruel thing of me to say. I would turn down the opportunity to dance because these must have cost a fortune, and I can't possibly accept such a nice gift from a stranger," she explained, more honestly. "I'll borrow a pair if I must, but I can't take these."

"I insist that you do, some of the girls here are vicious! Once a girl put a nail in her slipper before lending it to her competitor," Erik explained, a note of desperation in his voice.

"…Why are you so concerned? You were incredibly horrible to me when we first met, and only civil the second time. Now suddenly you're being downright kind. For what purpose, Erik?"

The man opened his mouth as if to speak before closing it immediately and looking down to the floor without a word. Anya strode up to him and pressed the shoes against his chest, still maintaining a decent amount of distance from him for her own comfort. The man shook his head and pressed them back into her hands. "Please, take them. They're a gift, I swear I want nothing from you in return," he promised, and Anya's brow furrowed.

"Then tell me why you're being so kind to me, if you don't expect something in return," she demanded, and Erik was silent for another moment before speaking.

"…I'm alone in this world. And until you… consented to rape, if such a thing is possible, I thought I was the only person capable of feeling so empty. And then you… talked to me, like I was perfectly normal. Please, take the shoes. From one dying breed to another," he whispered, pressing the shoes into her hands again until finally she took them.

"I… Thank you, Erik. This is a very thoughtful gift," Anya told him quietly, trying to find his eyes in those dark holes that seemed fixated on the floor again. There was a long period of silence where Erik seemed very aware that Anya was watching him, and looked like he wanted nothing more than to vanish into the shadows. So why didn't he?

"I wonder, do you think if two people are alone together, will they stop being lonely?" She ventured after a long moment of consideration.

Erik finally pulled his gaze from the floor and glanced at her. "Is that some sort of riddle?"

"No, it's an honest question, though I suppose it is sort of a riddle. Do you think anyone's tried it?"

"I can't be sure," he offered, curious as to what exactly she was getting at.

"Maybe we ought to try it. Like an experiment of sorts. You're alone in this place, you said, and I'm quite alone here. Perhaps if we stick together we won't be so lonely," she suggested quietly, and to her surprise Erik's whole body seemed to tense.

"You… you want to be with me?"

Anya's eyes widened and she spoke quickly. "Not in that way! We could be, I don't know… companions. Friends even. You could keep me company while I work, maybe I could come and keep you company while you work from time to time, whatever it is that you do."

Erik gaped at a moment, at a very obvious loss for words. Anya suddenly had the sense that nobody had ever suggested such a thing to him before, and her heart went out to him; she was only recently left alone, but she got the feeling this man had been alone the majority of his life. "I… all right," he said, quietly.

The woman smiled encouragingly. "Great. You'll have to tell me how to come down and see you, though. I got hopelessly turned around looking for you just now."

"I noticed. I think for the time being it would be best if only I came to see you."

"Well that hardly seems fair," Anya complained, but the masked man shook his head firmly.

"For now it's best. You would not like to be where I live for long."

"Why not? It seemed like it would be perfectly nice when you're in a less malicious mood."

"Please, Madame Chekov, for now I insist. Perhaps sometime in the future."

Anya furrowed her brow, uncomfortable with putting all of the power in his hands but finally nodding her consent. "All right, fine. I start work at eleven, but if you've been watching me I'm sure you know that. You'll have to speak up so I know you're there, though. No more watching me without my knowing about it, if you please. It makes me very uncomfortable."

"You'll know when I'm there," Erik promised. "For now, I must go. Can you find your own way out?"

"I think so. If I get lost you'll be able to help me?"

The masked man nodded. "Just shout and I'll find you. If you can avoid it, don't use my name."

"Why not? Erik is a perfectly good name," Anya pried, and the man shook his head.

"I believe I've mentioned before, I enjoy my privacy. If someone saw you shouting my name into the darkness, they might begin to put a name to the Opera Ghost, which would begin to make my life rather unpleasant." With that Erik vanished into the shadows once again, and Anya frowned some. What a curious man Erik was.

As she slowly but surely made her way back to the ground floor of the theatre, Anya decided she would have to do a little investigating of her own; if the Opera Ghost could know her history, she was determined to learn at least a little of his before they next met.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, how do you like it so far? I'm afraid my fears about it are coming true; I feel like most post-Christine fics are all pretty cookie cutter, this one included. But if it's an enjoyable cookie cutter, I don't see any harm in continuing it. Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Anya began her shift on time, finding herself almost eager for that strange voice to address her. When the midnight bells tolled, she was beginning to think the masked man had forgotten their appointment, or had never intended to keep it in the first place. Why would he say he would contact her if he had no intention to? It wasn't as if she had any means of coercing him into coming. After dark the theatre was his world, and everything and everyone inside of it were subject to his whims, she knew. So why not just tell her he wasn't interested in companion ship and leave well enough alone?

Just as she was finished sweeping the stage, exchanging her broom for a mop in the wings, Erik spoke from directly beside her, and for once he was not concealed in shadow. "Good evening. Morning now, rather," he remarked almost pleasantly, leaning back against the wall only a few feet away from the mop bucket.

Anya was about to scold him for startling her before deciding against it; if his intent had been to startle her, he wouldn't have made his location so obvious. Instead, she smiled to him pleasantly. "Good morning, Erik," she watched him with amusion in her eyes as he seemed at a loss for words at her perfectly normal greeting, so, she continued for him. "My day was fine, thanks for asking,"

Erik quickly seemed to regain himself, "I apologize, I haven't had such a… mundane conversation in years."

"Well if it's so mundane I won't keep you," she remarked a little bitterly, and the man straightened.

"That isn't what I meant. How was your day?"

The woman couldn't help but laugh, a sound not unlike the purr of a large cat Erik thought. Her voice was generally deeper than the light, airy of the average French woman, and he laugh was no different. Combined with her rather exotic looks and bold Russian nature, it made her a rather sensual figure even though that was never her intent. "I just told you how my day was. How was yours?"

"Perfectly ordinary," he admitted.

"And what exactly is an ordinary day in the life of an Opera Ghost?" Anya pried, taking the bucket out onto the stage to mop while her companion stayed in the shadows.

"What concern is it to you?" The man snapped, and Anya shot him a bit of a glare over her shoulder.

"Are we going to be civil or are we going to wind up bickering every time we meet? I'm only curious, there's no need to get angry."

There was a period of quiet while Anya began mopping before Erik spoke again. "Generally I compose. Sometimes I draw or write, and when necessary I go out into the city to get food and supplies, things of that nature."

"So you do go outside," Anya remarked, curiously. "I figured maybe the man with the strange hat brought you things. The girls here seem to think he knows you."

"You've been looking into me!" Erik accused sharply, and Anya laughed.

"Not so fun being on the other side of it, now is it? You needn't fret, I only know the gossip, which I must admit is varied. And of course I heard about Mademoiselle Daae not too long after I got into Paris. I can't believe four years later people still mention it every time you bring up the Opera," Anya told him conversationally. "I have to admit, the story is rather… fantastic. I'm not sure what parts of it to believe, if any of it."

"You really ought to be careful where you get your stories from," Erik remarked bitterly. "A good many of the tales have as much truth in them as a promise made by a woman. Not meaning to offend," he added as if just realizing the nature of his company.

"No offense taken," Anya remarked, amused. "If your only experience is with French women, I suppose it's perfectly true. I have to admit, I haven't met a very reliable one yet."

Erik made a sound of distaste. "If you meet a French _person_ who is anything close to reliable, please let me know. I shall write a paper and submit him as a new species."

Anya laughed heartily, and she saw Erik's lips quirk in satisfaction from where she stood. "At any rate, I would like to hear the story from you, if you wouldn't mind. Assuming you the same Ghost mentioned in the tale?"

"I am one and the same," Erik admitted, more quietly. Suddenly Anya realized that while she could still see him off in the wings of the stage, his voice was coming from someplace much closer, but she was quiet to let him speak. "I fell in love with a chorus girl, quite some time back. I… lied to her, so that I could be nearer to her, but the lie went too far. I took her to the place I took you, below the Opera, and kept her there. She couldn't love me for what I was, and in my rage I had planned to keep her with me forever and never let her go, but I simply couldn't. I was foolish enough to let her go, and she fell in love with another man. I took her back from him and tried to force her to marry me. She agreed so that I would not kill the man she loved and countless more. When she kissed me… I let her go. She left with her love, I haven't heard from her since."

As vague as the story was, it was still infinitely more detailed than what she had heard from people who were not involved. All she knew before Erik's telling of events was that a chorus girl who had been under the tutelage of the Opera Ghost had vanished twice, and the second time had not returned, presumably having run off with the also missing Vicomte de Changy, who had been unabashedly smitten with the girl. "Where does the chandelier come in?" She pried curiously. "Someone mentioned it fell on the audience during-"

"A production of Faust," Erik answered. "A somewhat unrelated incident, actually. I have a private Box in the theatre that I insist remain empty during performances."

"Box Five?"

"The very one. It offers one of the best seats in the house, naturally I wanted it kept aside. Well the managers decided to sell the box that night. In addition I was rather irritated that the current Diva was given the leading role in spite of my Christine's stunning performance at a gala not long before, for which she received rave reviews."

"…Let me get this straight. You cut down a chandelier, which fell onto the audience killing God knows how many… because someone sold your box?"

Erik gaped some from the wings, desperate for a way to explain himself that didn't make him sound like a madman or a child and coming up painfully short. "I warned the managers there would be consequences if my box were to ever be sold!"

"Just because you warned them doesn't mean they don't have a right to sell it! I don't suppose you paid for it," Anya demanded, leaning on her mop and glaring at his dark figure in the wings.

"Of course not! It's part of my salary-"

"A salary for doing what, exactly? You told me you compose all day long, what is it exactly that you do for the opera that earns you a salary, besides scaring the sense out of little girls and destroying chandeliers that are worth more my entire career?"

"Don't speak of things you don't understand, Madame," Erik warned dangerously, causing the woman to roll her eyes some.

"That's precisely why I'm asking you, Erik, so that I can understand, because frankly the story makes you sound like an absolute lunatic."

The masked man stalked towards her with such a purpose Anya dropped her mop and instinctively moved away; bold as her words could be at times, she knew the man could overpower her in an instant if he wanted to. Erik stood menacingly over her, but never laid a hand on her. "Who designed this theatre, Madame, do you know?"

"…Why, a man named Garnier I would imagine, give its name," she whispered, eyes diverted to the floor under his powerful stare. "Erik please, you're making me nervous-"

But the man stood his ground. "Yes you would think that, as all of Paris does, but it is a horrible lie; I designed the Opera, Madame Chekov, I was a principle character in its construction; every golden angel I sculpted, every plank of wood on the stage I laid, every God forsaken twist and turn of the labyrinth underground, including those known to no man but me, I built with my own hands. And what did I receive for it, Madame? Next to nothing. The daily salary of a laborer, hardly more than you earn now. Barely enough to eat by, let alone put a roof over my head. That is what I have done for the theatre, Madame. I am its creator and its protector."

Finally Erik backed away, and Anya frowned deeply. "I'm sorry, Erik. I didn't know I can't believe you built this place," she whispered, looking around with a sort of sadness.

"Why not?" Erik spat, nerves clearly still on edge. "Because I wear a mask and live like a mole?"

"No," Anya countered harshly before softening her voice. "Because when I first saw it I was convinced it must have been… created by God. That perhaps Genesis had forgotten to mention the creation of such a building. Even knowing it must have been built by the hands of man… I never imagined I'd meet a man capable of creating such beauty. Admittedly, I'm also taken aback that the same man could destroy such beauty but bringing down a chandelier. I've seen the portrait of it, it was a work of art of its own."

Erik immediately felt wretched for having been so harsh with her, and retreated back to the wings quietly. "Your story. It's not like the one the girls have told me," she remarked, returning to her mopping. "But you must know that. I'm sure the only people who really know what happened are you, Mademoiselle Daae, and her love. Was he really a Vicomte?"

"Yes, he was really a Vicomte. And you're right, only a handful of people know, yourself among them now I suppose."

"Why did you tell me, then? You could have just told me the story I'd heard before and I would have believed that was all," she pried, and Erik was quiet for a thoughtful moment.

"…You have an open face, I suppose. I can't really say other than that you asked, so I answered," Erik explained, seeming unsure of why himself. It was clearly a very private matter, for even though he had revealed the far more than she had known he came far short of telling her intimate details.

"Well, I'm flattered then," she told him with a reassuring smile. "If you want to know anything about me, just ask," she offered in return, not expecting the question that followed.

"Are you glad he's dead?"

Anya physically reeled at the question, at a complete loss for words. "I… What?"

"Are you glad you're husband's dead? He was cheating on you-"

"Yes, I know he was cheating on me," she answered firmly. "But of course I'm not glad he's dead. I loved him. What a horrible thing to say…" Why did her voice sound so uncertain?

"Because he betrayed you. He promised you forever and spent his happily ever after with someone else."

"It isn't that simple, Erik."

"Why isn't it? It seems simple enough to me."

Anya sighed and thought for a moment. "Well. It's not unlike what Christine did to you now is it? She told you she would marry you, and then left with someone else. It's perhaps not as… extreme. But she promised you forever and is off God knows where. But do you wish her dead?"

Erik was silent for a moment. "I didn't at first, I loved her too much… and then for a long while I did. I don't know that I do anymore."

"I went through the same thing," Anya confided quietly, leaning against the mop. "I was completely heartbroken at first. I spent about a week sleeping in his shirts until they lost their smell… then for about a week I was glad he was dead. It was like you said… he promised me he would love me always, that I was the only thing in the world that made him happy... but when I got old he turned to my sister, who is ten years younger and far prettier than I ever was. But I just… can't hate him for it. We married young, I can't blame him for changing his mind."

"I can't imagine any living person being far prettier than you, even if they were ten years younger," Erik remarked absently before immediately pursing his lips and cursing inwardly for letting that thought be spoken aloud. Anya smiled some at the complement, getting the feeling they didn't come readily from the man.

"You're sweet. But even if it's not because she was prettier, I'm pretty sure the sex was fantastic," she grumbled. "My sister… well she had quite the reputation let's just say. Whereas I was a virgin when I met my husband, and after having a child-"

"You have a child?" Demanded Erik, sounding so taken aback that Anya glared at him some.

"I… No, not really. I had a miscarriage when I was sixteen, a year after I married. The physician said I was too malnourished to carry the child, and that I was so thin he was surprised I conceived at all. The curse of being a ballerina I guess; the physician told me I was too thin, my instructors told me I was too big. It was impossible to win."

Erik was quiet then. "I'm sorry for your loss. But I don't see how a miscarriage would… ruin you," he spoke delicately, more out of his own embarrassment at the subject than to avoid offending her.

"I don't know. I suppose it didn't right away. My husband didn't find my sister until the year before he got sick. That was just… my excuse for his actions, I suppose," she offered quietly. Like her companion, she was unsure of why she was giving more detail than she really needed to. But it felt… strangely good to talk about it, after keeping it to herself for so long. "Though I guess it doesn't matter now that he's dead."

"You're right, it doesn't," Erik agreed. "You never thought to remarry?"

Anya gave an accidental, very unladylike snort before covering her face, embarrassed. "I… No. Nobody would marry me, you must be joking! Who would take a woman like me for their bride? Even if they could stomach me long enough to propose, I'm nothing close to a virgin. The wedding night would be shit and the marriage would dissolve the next day. Besides, I'm thirty years old, barren, and I haven't had to attempt to be charming in fifteen years since meeting my husband! I couldn't win a man even if _I_ pursued _him_. I'd rather be a lonely old widow than risk that sort of… rejection."

The clock struck two and Anya's brow furrowed. "Goodness, we've been talking for two hours? I didn't even hear the one o'clock chime…"

"We have been. If you'd like I can leave you to your work."

"I think that's probably a good idea. Not that I haven't enjoyed our conversation," she added upon seeing his figure droop some in the wings. "It's just that I'm usually nearly done by now, and I haven't hardly mopped a quarter of the stage, and I still have to polish it. Come back tomorrow though, won't you?"

The white mask bobbed in a nod. "Until tomorrow then," he offered, and suddenly his figure was gone, completely faded into darkness.

"Until tomorrow," Anya smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

Considering Anya's initial fear of the man, she was rather surprised to find she was actually coming to enjoy his company. Erik was frighteningly clever and insightful when he wanted to be, but there was still a certain awkwardness to him that made his occasional boughts of arrogance almost… charming. It was as though he were an overgrown child sometimes, bragging about his accomplishments and lavishing her praise (though he was hard pressed to praise in turn, she noted).

"I don't believe it," she told him frankly one night. "You built a palace in Persia? You, Monsieur, are a rotten liar."

"How do you think I came to know the Persian?" Demanded Erik, from his perch in the catwalk, where she could just make out his figure dangling one leg over the edge and holding his other knee to his chest, comfortably. "He and I have a long, sorted history."

"So if I asked him about you he would tell me you built a palace in Persia?" She demanded, and the masked figure nodded as he answered.

"Yes, and he would probably tell you more besides so don't go snooping anymore. Though really the two of you would get along swimmingly, with your insatiable curiosities."

"And yet you associate with the both of us. I would say curiosity is a trait you appreciate in a person, Erik," Anya retorted. "And if he's going to tell me more, you know I have no choice but to see him. You tell me so terribly little, and you know how insatiable my curiosity is."

There was a grumble from the broom, where Erik's voice generally came from even though he sat on the catwalks or stood in the wings most nights. "Tell me about this palace you built, then. Why on earth would a wealthy Persian hire a Frenchman to build an eastern palace? I suppose you're going to tell me some plague wiped out all the architects in the orient?"

The voice from the broom chuckled. "Not at all. In fact the eastern architects are some of the busiest, cleverest in the world, the ones in Russia not excluded," he added, earning a smile at the mention of Anya's homeland. "I didn't start as an architect there, actually. I started as a court magician."

Anya grinned. "Did you really? Well come down and let's see a trick, then!" The woman demanded, and again the broom chuckled.

"Ma chère, where do you see me?"

"Why, on the catwalk of course," Anya answered.

"And where do you hear my voice?" Erik asked from just over her left shoulder, causing the woman to visibly start.

"Fine, fine. It is a wonderful trick, I'll admit," Anya granted him, earning what she thought might be a smile from the man above. "What else did you do?"

"Many things that aren't appropriate for the ears of a woman as lovely as yourself, I'm sorry to say," though he didn't sound sorry, Anya noted. "What earned me the position of architect was my talent with magic, though, specifically with making things disappear. I was known as the Trap-Door Lover there for much of my prime. The Shah requested I build him a palace full of such tricks, not unlike ones I've built into the Opera. I made all of the stage trap doors, as well as the ones that protect my house by the lake."

Anya shook her head with a bit of a smile, allowing the man to brag. "I will be comparing your story with whatever I can weasel out of the Persian, and it had better be the same," she threatened emptily.

"You can be certain it will be. But I beg you not to pry too deeply."

"Afraid he might tell me things I am too lovely to hear?" Anya asked with a quirked brow.

"And more," he said uncomfortably, prompting Anya to change the subject.

"You must be at least as old as I am, if you knew that man in Persia and were old enough to be kidnapping chorus girls four years ago."

There was very evident amusion in the man's voice when he spoke. "How old did you think I was?"

"Oh, I don't know. I never really thought about it much. You're limber enough to be in your twenties or thirties, hanging around catwalks and dropping chandeliers from the ceiling. How old are you?"

"Something in the vicinity of fifty, give or take a year or two. I stopped bothering to keep track a long time ago."

"Fifty! Dear God if I'm as limber as you are when I'm fifty I shall have a career until I'm a hundred!" she exclaimed, causing Erik to laugh heartily from the rafters, not bothering to throw his voice. This was the first time Anya had ever heard him truly laugh. He had chuckled or guffawed several times, but this was a genuine, mirthful laugh, so infectious it had her grinning. She was immediately fascinated by its tonality, and hoped it was not the first and last time she heard such a wonderful sound.

"You flatter me, ma chère. You needn't worry, you're only thirty and still quite talented. You will have a long and full career, I am sure. Which reminds me, the next production is being announced tomorrow, along with the dates for the audition."

Anya frowned deeply. "How far out do they usually set the audition from the announcement?"

"Not terribly long. A week or two at the most," Erik informed her, before realizing why there was such concern in her voice. "Your foot is still paining you?"

"Yes. It's almost healed, but I dare not risk dancing on it yet. It will surely be healed by then but I won't have had any practice!" She lamented, holding her face in her hands in frustration.

"Do not fret, Anya, I will take care of everything," announced Erik confidently.

Anya looked up at him, confused. "How can you possibly fix this? It's simply a case of wretched timing. I will be able to make the next audition, I just loathe the thought of cleaning for another production when I long for the stage…"

"Do you trust me, Anya?" Demanded the man suddenly. Anya's brow furrowed seriously as she considered this thought. It had only been a few weeks since the man had kidnapped her with full intent to rape her and possibly more… so why was it she should possibly answer yes?

Because this was not quite the same man who had kidnapped her for knowing his identity, she realized. Certainly his body was the same, and perhaps that man was still in Erik's mind somewhere, but this man was perfectly civil, if a little morbid from time to time. She couldn't imagine him bringing down a chandelier onto a packed house or raping a ballerina. That man was the Opera Ghost, and she did not trust him a hair.

Erik however, she trusted as much as any friend. "I do. But Erik, whatever it is your planning, please be civil! I don't want anyone harmed on my account. But if you could talk the managers into pushing back the date, that would be remarkable."

"I will have everything taken care of by tomorrow, you needn't fret," Erik promised again, and Anya smiled. "But it does mean I must leave you and get started. Good morning, ma chère," he told her in farewell, and in the blink of an eye Erik had dropped gracefully from the catwalk clear through the stage, causing Anya to gasp audibly. She ran over to where he had fallen, stomping on the floor with the heel of her boot looking for any sign of a trap door. In one place no more than three feet wide and two feet deep, the stage sounded just slightly more hollow than the surrounding area, and Anya's mouth hung open in astonishment.

After a little research into the man with the strange hat, Anya learned that he had a flat on the Rue de Rivoli, not too far from the Opera. Almost as soon as she had acquired the address, Anya was at the doorstep of the flat, where she knocked gently.

A short, dark man with equally dark eyes answered the door. "How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for a man the girls at the Opera call 'The Persian'? I regret that no one I talked to seems to know his name. Are you he?"

"That would be the master of the house. I take it he is not expecting you?"

"No, but I believe he and I have a mutual friend at the Opera. Please, if he isn't terribly busy I would like to speak with him," she asked in a voice as sweet as honey, so that the servant man could not refuse. The door was only closed a few moments before it opened again, this time by a taller man with a similar complexion as the first, but eyes the color of jade even greener than her own, less marred by grays.

"What can I do for you, Mamemoiselle?" Asked the man politely.

"Monsieur, I believe we have a mutual friend at the Opera," Anya explained with a smile. "A man named Erik. He told me-" Very quickly Anya was ushered inside and the door was closed behind her.

"You mustn't speak his name in the open, Madame! I am sorry if I have been too gruff, but you must understand, he is a very, very private man. Oh! I am becoming so terribly rude in my old age. Nadir Khan, at your service. And you are..?"

Anya curtsied politely as she introduced herself. "Anya Chekov. I clean the stage at nights, that is how I met Erik. He tells me such wild stories while I work, I thought I would ask you if any of them are true."

Nadir frowned thoughtfully, guiding her into the parlor and gesturing for her to sit before sitting across from her. "I must admit, I am a little taken aback by your own story. Erik is… not a healthy man, Madame. How precisely did you come to meet him, may I ask?"

"…Not pleasantly," she admitted. "I ran into him while he was in a fowl mood, quite on accident. He took me to that dwelling below the opera, by the lake. He was quite cruel to me, but finally he let me go. I suppose he felt truly sorry for being so horrible, because he's been perfectly pleasant ever since. A little morbid and childish sometimes, but nothing like the monster he was when I first met him."

"Madame, if he hurt you at all-"

Anya shook her head fiercely. "Oh, no! He intended to, but he only verbally harassed me, you have my word. And honestly, he's been well ever since," she promised, though the man was clearly still nervous.

"I… very well. But you say he has been telling you stories? Surely not about himself?"

"He and I… we have a strange relationship. I tell him things I haven't told anyone, and he tells me stories about his life. Most of them are quite fantastic, which is why I am here. He tells stories of building palaces in Persia and working in the court as a magician. He told me that is where he met you, actually."

The Persian still seemed quite taken aback by the news that his old friend was voluntarily revealing secrets he had sworn Nadir to silence over. The man was at a loss for words for a long moment before deciding if Erik had already told her, confirming his story did no harm. "Well, yes. All that his true. I fetched him from Russia myself, on orders from the Shah so that he could perform his magic in the court. Erik was a rather famous performer in his youth."

Anya was fascinated. "I can't believe it's true! I was so sure he was pulling my leg!"

"Erik does embellish his stories at times, but that much is quite true," Nadir promised. "As for the palace, he didn't build it until just before he fled."

"Fled? Was the Shah not pleased with his work?"

"Oh no, you see that is just the opposite; the Shah was so pleased he ordered me to have Erik killed. You see, I was the Daroga of the court. A police chief, you might say."

Anya's eyes widened. "But why… was it because of the trap doors?"

"How much has Erik told you, exactly?" Demanded the man, curiously. It was unlike his friend to divulge so much information.

"Not much more than that. He said most of his time in Persia was not for the ears of a lady. He said you might tell me though…"

"He did, did he?" Nadir frowned pensively; by the sound of things, Erik, for whatever reason, wanted this woman to know about him… why else would he tell the girl anything at all, let alone where she could find the unsavory parts of his past. "I suppose as long as you promise not to hold the tale against me, or against him, I might tell you."

"You have my word, Monsieur Khan," promised Anya eagerly.

Nadir took a deep breath before speaking. "Erik was not just hired as magician, we later learned. He was brought in as an assassin. I had not heard the rumors of this particular talent of Erik's until well after I brought him to Mazenderan. The Shah used him as a political agent for many years, and the Sultana used him to entertain her sick and twisted mind with traps and executions. When the Shah ordered him killed, I arranged his escape, and left Persia shortly after. It was an extremely hostile environment; he made many, many mistakes but generally did what was needed to survive," the man explained to a transfixed Anya. "Even I don't know what happened to him between his escape and when I met him again here in Paris. In exchange for telling you this, I ask that you tell me whatever it is you find out about those years. He finds me far more tiresome than he finds pretty young women, I fear."

Anya was so taken aback by the story, all she could do was nod her agreement. When the clock struck seven, the woman was pulled back to reality. "I must go Monsieur; they are posting announcements about the next ballet just now, and I am eager to see if Erik has kept his promise."

The Persian regarded her curiously. "What promise did Erik make you?"

"…I am a ballerina, Monsieur, though it might be hard to tell by looking at me these days. I am only cleaning the stage until the next audition. I injured my foot recently, and it is healing well but I won't have had any time to practice before the audition and will be clumsy as a member of the corps if something isn't done about the date. Erik promised he would take care of things; I expect he pushed back the date of the audition, and I'm eager to see," she explained.

"Let us hope that is all he did," Nadir remarked, showing his guest to the door. "Best of luck to you, Madame, and give our friend my regards," he called after her as she all but ran down the street with a polite wave to her host in thanks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Sorry it's been a while! Between being sick and midterms I haven't had much time/energy to write. Here's a nice long chapter to make up for it.

* * *

On the announcement board in the wings of the stage was posted a cast list, and in front of it an awestruck Russian woman who was quietly wondering if she had gone mad or somehow forgotten how to read French. Perhaps it was both, she wondered, reading and rereading the piece of paper as ballerinas walked behind her gossiping away.

"Who is this Anya Chekov? I've never seen her audition, have you?"

"No, I haven't! Perhaps she is screwing one of the managers?"

"Perhaps she is screwing a wealthy patron! God knows it's happened before-"

Anya ducked her head as the girls passed, trying not to feel so foreign. This… this was really happening. She was not mad or misreading the slip; she had been cast as Giselle in the ballet by the same name. The part had been her debut in Russia as a prima ballerina, and earned her rave reviews… but that had been seven, nearly eight years ago, in a different country, when she was still young and beautiful. To play Giselle now! The part was innocent, weak and virtuous but at the same time noble and passionate. It was an immensely difficult role to perform… how in God's name had she been cast as Giselle? And without auditioning no less!

Moncharmin cleared his throat from behind her, and Anya startled visibly; she had been so focused n her thoughts that she had not noticed him behind her. "Well Madame Chekov, I do wish you had told us you were making friends in high places."

"Monsieur Moncharmin! I-"

"I would like to let you know, Madame, that you are on very dangerous grounds. Friends of the Opera Ghost are no friends of ours," the man warned her, and Anya frowned.

"Monsieur, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You mean to tell me you know nothing about the Opera Ghost?"

"It's not that… Monsieur, I injured my foot and was worried I would not be well enough for the audition. All E- all the Ghost told me was that he would take care of it. I only thought he would ask you to postpone the audition. You don't mean to say he set the cast list?"

Moncharmin eyed her suspiciously. "He set the cast list, and the orchestra, and provided us with an ideal set designed, rather like the last time he felt the need to intervene with our performances. He has been quite enough for a good many years, Madame, and now suddenly he is making advances for your career?" The man shook his head, incredulously. "Madame, he is a dangerous entity. Please, if you know anything about him you must inform the authorities. I assure you, helping us rid the theatre of him will advance your career far more than he ever will."

Anya gaped. "Monsieur, I have nothing to do with this! I have no desire to perform a part I have not earned! Put me in the chorus, or even remove me from the cast! I swear to you, all I asked the man for was a chance to audition, nothing more."

"He said you might say that. He also said if we lessened your part we would pay for it dearly, and after what happened the last time I believe him. You will play Giselle, Madame, but do not expect a warm welcome," Moncharmin concluded, walking back off the stage to his offices. Very nearly in tears, Anya waited until the man was out of site before shouting, not particularly caring if she sounded like a madwoman or not.

"Erik you fiend! You said you hear everything that happens in the Opera, well hear me now! I have half a mind to report you to the authorities like Moncharmin wants! You have ruined me, do you hear me Erik? You've simply ruined me! What in God's name did I do to you to deserve this?" She demanded, bordering on hysterics. "I ought to tell the whole ballet who and what you are, you monster! I-" Before she could utter another word, the woman was unconscious and draped over the shoulder of a tall man swathed in black, who quickly carried her off into the shadows.

When Anya opened her eyes hours later, she immediately closed them again, hands covering her face to keep out as much of the light as possible while her head throbbed. She couldn't quite remember what had happened… had she been drinking? Her head and stomach certainly felt as if she had been. When finally she could pry her eyes open, her stomach dropped for a moment at the unfamiliar surroundings. This was not her room…

Then she recognized it; this was the room Erik had cornered her in, when he had first brought her here. She hadn't paid it much attention before, but this was certainly it. Pulling off the blankets, Anya yelped and immediately covered herself again upon realizing she was only in her undergarments. Her stomach knotted in terror, and she wondered now if she would prefer to remember what had happened before she fell asleep at all.

A knock came at the door, and the door opened just enough to let in Erik's voice. "Anya, is everything all right?"

She tightened the blanket around her chest as she sat up. "Stay out! I'm indecent!"

"I know, I'll stay put. Your dress is on the chair by the bed, but there are fresh gowns in the wardrobe if you would prefer," said Erik, closing the door once more.

Oh God, what has happened? Anya thought to herself, controlling her breathing before finally pulling herself out of bed. Moved by curiosity, Anya ventured to the wardrobe to inspect the dresses within. Each and every one of them was worth more than her week's salary as a prima ballerina in Russia, without a doubt. They were all beautifully made of some of the finest materials Anya had ever seen. Silks, chiffon, lace, ribbon, cotton, things that put the rough fabrics of even her finest gowns to shame. Gently she pulled out a simple, wine colored dress accented with ivory lace and ribbon. Inspecting herself (awkwardly, for there was no mirror in the room she noticed), she wondered at its elegance; the dress was large in the breast and slightly narrow in the shoulders, but most of her dresses were considering her ballerina's build. Once the dress was tied snuggly and her brief moment of vanity was past, the reality of her situation struck her; she had no recollection of how she got here, or what she had been doing previously, and had woken up in her undergarments in a strange man's bed. Knowing she could not avoid the situation forever, Anya took a steadying breath before stepping out of the little bedroom into the parlor.

Erik was seated at a dining table, moving a finger gently around the rim of a large wine glass, making it sing quietly. When the door opened, he could not help but stare at the figure that stood in the doorway, awkwardly holding herself about her middle with her eyes on the floor. When Anya said nothing, Erik decided he probably should. "That dress is stunning on you," he said uncomfortably, and Anya's brow furrowed as she gazed at the floor.

"I… thank you. It is a stunning dress in the wardrobe as well," she added. "It was for Christine, wasn't it?"

The masked man's eyes immediately moved from the woman in the doorway to his wineglass. "Yes, it was."

"I thought it might have been; the breasts are too large and the shoulders are too narrow for it to have been for me," she remarked, before realizing how terribly arrogant that sounded. Why on earth would Erik ever buy her a dress so fine? "Erik… what exactly happened? The last thing I remember is coming into the theatre to look for the announcement."

Erik's eyes remained fixated on his wineglass. "I don't quite know what happened before you began shouting like a madwoman, except that one of the managers spoke with you. You were threatening to turn me over to the authorities, saying that I had ruined your career…"

Anya's eyes widened as the memories flooded back to her. "Yes! You cast me as Giselle! You…" She seethed. "You are a horrible, monstrous man!"

"For helping your career I am a horrible man? I had you cast as the lead in a Paris ballet! It will make you a star!" Erik glared at her hard, standing to move into another room Anya discovered to be the kitchen when she followed him.

"Erik! The entire ballet hates me! They hate me, Erik. You should hear them talk about me! They think I'm sleeping with the managers! And Moncharmin… Moncharmin probably thinks I'm sleeping with you! Which reminds me, why in God's name did I wake up in my undergarments? What happened, Erik?"

Erik looked back down to the floor. "I… accidently poisoned you, bringing you here. I put too much of the anesthetic on the rag in my haste to keep your quiet. You were very will, I couldn't wake you enough for you to undress yourself, and you were going to ruin your dress. I swear on my life, nothing happened," he promised so sincerely Anya felt inclined to believe him in spite of really having no reason to. He had tried to rape her once before, after all. There was something about Erik's voice though… it seemed to convey emotions he could not show directly on his face.

"…Okay. Thank you then, I guess. How long have I been I asleep?"

"Six hours, about. I'll return you whenever you're ready."

Anya shook her head. "Not yet, you and I need to have a talk. Why did you do it, Erik?"

Erik turned and folded his arms crossly, standing tall against the kitchen counter. "I promised you I could take care of things, and I did. I am giving you every dancer's dream!"

"This? This is not my dream Erik! Perhaps it is the dream of the rats who do nothing but dream about being Cinderella and meeting their prince charming, anything whisk them away from the stage. These… children are ballerinas because of the romance, Erik, not because they love the dance. That isn't me. That was never me. I love to dance, Erik. It is my life! I don't care about the roles I get so long as I have earned them through hard work and talent. My dream is to earn the praise of audiences for my talent, not for who I know," Anya explained, exasperated. "You should have talked to me, Erik. All I wanted was a chance to audition-"

"I beg your forgiveness then, Anya," Erik sneered. "God forbid anyone want to give you the moon on a string. God forbid anyone want to be kind to you, to earn that beautiful, magnificent smile that radiates into your eyes. I would throw myself off the roof if it would earn that smile!" He told her before he ever realized the thoughts in his head were flowing unbidden from his mouth, thoughts that he had never in his life intended to utter. "Nobody has ever treated me as humanely as you do, nobody has ever made me feel so human, God forbid I want to make you feel half as wonderful as you make me feel!"

It was Anya's bewildered stare that brought Erik out of his ramblings and made him realize the gravity of what he had said. His entire body changed from a posture of powerful offense and anger to one of embarrassment and utter anguish. Erik moved past her as silently as a shade, and Anya turned to follow him with her gaze as he all but ran into another of the rooms in the house, slamming the door behind him with such force she couldn't help but jump. In moments the anguished wail of a pipe organ began, causing Anya to slump into one of the chairs at the dining table.

The music continued relentlessly for hours. Anya could not pull herself away; it was so transfixing, so dynamic that certain phrases physically affected her. Some passages made her weep with their anguish, some made her want to scream with anger she didn't know she felt. Others still made her breast ache with longing, while others made her feel so ugly and depressed she longed to sleep and never wake up.

When the music finally stopped, Anya clutched at the collar of her dress quietly. Why did her heart still ache now that the music was through? After a long moment of consideration, Anya moved to the door Erik had disappeared behind, knocking gently. "Erik? Please come out, Erik. I'm not angry with you," why she added this she couldn't imagine, but it seemed the right thing to say. After a long moment of quiet, the door opened just a crack.

"You aren't?"

"No, Erik. I'm still… upset that you didn't discuss this with me. But I'm not angry," she promised quietly. "Would you please come out?"

The door opened further and Erik stepped out. "I'm sorry. I should return you now," he remarked upon noticing the time. She nodded quietly before noticing his hands, which were covered in blood.

"Oh God, Erik you're bleeding!"

Erik clutched at his hands, and moved to the sink. "It's nothing, please don't let it horrify you."

"Nonsense, let me see," she demanded as he rinsed his hands. Anya stood next to him and took his hands from the water; the man shuddered at her touch, but Anya was too worried to notice. The man's fingers were bleeding, his nails split much like the nail of her toe had been from the breaking of her slipper; he had been playing so ferociously at the organ he had not even noticed. "Come here you foolish man," she scolded gently, drying off Erik's hands with a rag and pulling him over to the table. "Where do you keep your bandages?"

"In the pantry," he told her, watching her intently as she moved into the kitchen to raid the pantry for the bandages. She returned before long and unwrapped his hands from the rag before wrapping the two fingers which still bled. "Why are you being so kind to me? After everything I said…"

"Because you are my friend, Erik. And really… what you said was very sweet. I still think you were wrong in what you did," Anya added, "but it was well intentioned."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Erik quoted, and Anya nodded, inspecting her handiwork.

"That should stop the bleeding soon," she remarked with a gentle smile. "You are as passionate about your music as I am my dance, I can tell. We all suffer our injuries," she smiled with a nod to her feet.

"Thank you," Erik whispered, heart racing when Anya kissed his masked cheek gently.

"You're very welcome. I hate to be such a bore, but I really must return. I'm already not very well liked, I don't want to give anyone a reason to dislike me even more by being tardy."

Erik nodded curtly and stood, moving past her to take up his cloak. Anya watched him with a furrowed brow, unsure of his behavior as he stood in a gap that suddenly opened in the wall of the parlor, gesturing for her to step out. Anya moved past him obediently, stepping into the boat on the lake just outside, steadying herself on his hand. By the time Erik returned her high enough into the theatre for her to find her own way, it was nearly sunup. Only having slept in a drug haze, Anya was exhausted by the events of the evening but forsake sleep in order to introduce herself to the girls in the dormitories, for better or for worse.


	8. Chapter 8

Life quickly became busy at the ballet, as it often did when performances were being rehearsed. As much as the members of the company wanted to dislike Anya, even the managers who had been extorted to cast her found her work remarkable. Her technique was as good as the primas in residence, though much of it was quite unlike anything the French ballet company had ever seen. Many of her movements would have been as unfair to compare to those of the French prima ballerinas as comparing apples to oranges. Anya picked up the choreography quickly, explaining that she had danced the part in the past. While the finer points of the choreography varied from company to company worldwide, it was never all that different on the whole. On occasion she would fall into steps she had learned so many years ago, but would catch herself without fail and ask to start over with the methods the choreographer in residence preferred.

Anya was given her own room, the very one she had practiced in when she was merely a custodian, and an actual wage on top. It wasn't much, but it was infinitely more than she had been earning before and was plenty enough to begin saving. At this rate it would take months, maybe even years to live comfortably and save for a boat to America, but it was still faster than the eternity it would have taken before, having to spend ever franc she earned just to eat.

The woman tossed and turned fitfully in her sleep on the small bed that had been brought into the dressing room. She whimper and even yelped in her dreams as Erik watched from the two-way mirror. It had been weeks since he had seen her, a combination of his own embarrassment and her new schedule keeping them apart. He would watch her sleep sometimes, if only to feel a certain closeness to her. How he missed their conversations, however mundane they often were. Alone, he could almost feel whatever sanity she bestowed upon him with her normality slipping away with every day they were apart.

Suddenly Anya yelped and sat bolt upright in bed, hand covering her mouth as she realized her surroundings and cried quietly. Erik could not stand to keep the silence any longer. "Why do you cry, ma chère?" He asked from the safety of the mirror, and Anya sobbed her embarrassment.

"Oh, Erik. I didn't think anyone was listening…"

"Of course you didn't, you were asleep," Erik pointed out. "You were having a nightmare from what I could tell."

The woman nodded weakly. "Where are you? I'd very much like to see you," she whispered, words Erik never thought he would hear in all his years.

"Close your eyes and I will come out," he told her after a moment, and the woman obeyed curiously. Erik stepped through the mirror as the mechanism opened and closed in the blink of an eye. "All right. I am here."

Anya opened her eyes again, wiping at them furiously. "Oh, what was I thinking? You should have stayed put, I'm a mess."

"Nonsense. I could see you where I was anyway," he told her, and she regarded him curiously.

"You were watching me sleep?"

Erik thought quickly. "You were fussing so much, I came to see what was wrong. I've only been here a moment," he explained, though the last part was true. He hadn't arrived more than five or six minutes before she woke, and she was already fussing when he stepped up to the mirror.

Anya nodded quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."

"It's no bother at all," he promised. "Do you mind if I ask what you dreamed that brought you to tears? Even when I was a monster to you, I don't recall you crying."

Anya hung her head some and held herself. For a brief moment she thought to ask Erik if he would hold her, so needing the comfort of strong arms in that moment. Quickly she banished the thought and spoke. "It was about Luka. My husband… the day he…" she hung her head quietly when Erik frowned.

"Anya. You were fussing for quite a long time," he ventured quietly. "And once or twice you yelp… almost as if you were in pain."

The woman gapped for a moment as if looking for words to speak before sobbing quietly. "You wouldn't understand," she cried quietly, not realizing she was now speaking Russian in her grief. "He never… he never laid a finger on me until…"

"Until when, Anya?" Erik pressed in her native tongue, aggressive enough to cause another sob. The man frowned deeply and longed to wrap her into his arms, to take her away to his underground kingdom where nothing would ever harm her.

"Until he got sick. After it took his sight he just wasn't the same. It was my own fault. Luka was a proud man, I tried too much to help him-"

"Any man who would strike you is a damned fool whether you choose to believe it or not!" He seethed, knowing he himself was not above such an act, but knowing he was a damned fool. "You mustn't think it was your fault!"

"But it was, Erik! It was! I told you you would not understand!" She cried quietly, and Erik gave into his urges before he realized what was happening, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling her against his chest. He didn't become aware of what was happening until she clutched at him, pulling his thin frame tight against her and crying quietly into his shirt.

"What… what is it you think you did that justifies anyone striking such a magnificent creature?" He finally managed to ask, and Anya took a shaking breath against his shoulder.

"I rearranged his things. His brushes and easels… He was always saying he could never find anything, so I organized it all. I made little cups for his brushes, and a box for his paints. But it only made it worse. At least before he generally knew where to find something… he came home drunk and in a foul mood, and discovered his things had been moved before I had a chance to show him where it all was," she whispered quietly. "He got terribly angry at me, as he should have. It wasn't mine to touch."

Anya had been right; Erik could not fathom it. The man had been cheating on her, and was apparently a drinker with a foul temper… yet she had very clearly loved him. Her goal had been to improve the quality of his life, and he had beaten her for it. He truly could not understand the way her mind worked. "Anya, you are a kind, loving woman. I have met very few people with a heart as big as yours. Your husband was a fool for not seeing it."

The woman only shook her head against Erik's bony shoulder. "I just… I wanted him to love me like he did when we were young. Fifteen years of marriage… how could he stop loving me when I still loved him? I had to love him. What choice did I have?" she whispered into his chest.

"You could have loved another man, like he loved another woman," Erik suggested. You could love me, his heart screamed, while his mind silenced it with memories of the terror his attempts to love a woman had wrought. Images of a screaming harem girl with his mask in her lovely, henna painted hands. Images of Christine Daae's angelic little face contorted in terror…

"It's not that easy, Erik. He needed me. After he got sick my sister found the idea of sleeping with a cripple too disgusting to stomach. He lost his art, he lost his love… I was all he had. But I wasn't enough," she told him renewing the firmness of her hold on him. Erik silently prayed the man was in hell where he belonged for taking such an angel for granted, and cursed his own luck; why was it horrible men could find love and ruin it while Erik was doomed to die alone?

"After… After he hit me, he began to drink again. I tried to hide the bottle from him when he turned his back, but he caught me. That's when he brought out the gun he kept in the nightstand, in case of intruders. He… he fired it at me, but missed. But I suppose he thought he hit me, because he didn't fire again. Just after he fired at me he put the gun in his mouth and he… he…" Anya sobbed, unable to continue.

Erik held her tightly while she cried until her eyes were dry but her breathing would not still. Ever so softly, he began to sing. It was a comforting melody, a lullaby he had heard once traveling with the gypsies. Where he had heard it he could not be certain, for it had no words. It was a simple, soothing little melody that had often comforted him on the nights his sorrow threatened to overtake him. Slowly Anya's breathing began to steady, and she looked up at him with tired, puffy eyes as the melody stopped.

"…You have a lovely voice, Erik," she told him quietly, watching him with a reverent sort of wonder.

"Thank you. I have a gift for music," he explained, and the woman nodded.

"I noticed. That song you played on the organ, the last time I saw you. It moved me to tears," she admitted, though she didn't dare say the other things it made her feel.

"I apologize if it made you sad. I forget sometimes the effect my music has upon people."

Anya shook her head, still watching him. "Erik?"

"Yes, ma chère?"

"…may I kiss you?" she ventured, wishing to show her gratitude for his comfort and kindness but somehow sensing kissing him without permission would lead to very bad things.

Erik was completely taken aback by this question. How he longed to say yes! To tell her that she may kiss him whenever and wherever she pleased, so long as she kissed him. How he longed to take her face in his hands and devour her full lips, her strong jaw, her swan-like neck… Realizing how aroused his own reverie was making him, Erik spoke quickly. "No, I do not think that is a very good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because, ma chère, there are… things about me that would make you regret it more than I could bare, if you knew them."

"Like whatever it is you're hiding under your mask?" She pried quietly, and Erik nodded without a word. She cupped his cheek gently. "I know you must wear it for a reason, and I admit I am curious about whatever it is you are hiding. But on my honor Erik, I would not regret kissing you right now, not after you have been so good to me."

Erik opened his mouth to protest and Anya pulled his head down gently to meet his lips with a soft, gentle kiss. Erik had had one kiss before, from a woman who had felt obligated to do so to save the life of her love and of a strange Persian man who would have otherwise drowned without her quick actions… and as breathtakingly tragic and beautiful that moment in Erik's life had been, this moment was tenfold more so.

He was not threatening her. Nobody was at the risk of harm. He had even insisted she not… and yet she kissed him anyway. And what a breathtaking kiss it was! Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end under her hand, gooseflesh races across his body as their lips melted together. She lingered there with her mouth on his for longer than Christine had dared, and Erik's heart soared. Even if it meant nothing, even if it was only a thank you, it would go down as the single most memorable handful of moments in Erik's long and tiresome life.

Finally Anya pulled her lips away, watching the man curiously as a thousand different thoughts seemed to cross his mind, all readable through bizarre, animalistic eyes. She couldn't shake the way the feel of his lips had made her heart skip a beat. Eager to feel that strange, exciting feeling again, she pulled down his lips to kiss him once more. The kiss lingered for ages before the pair seemed to at the same moment become very aware of their closeness to one another. There was a moment of hesitation between their lips when suddenly, before either of them realized it had happened, the kiss deepened. Pulses raced and breathing quickened, and when Erik succumbed to the urge to take every part of her into his mouth Anya gasped under his touch, fingers digging into his back when his teeth ever so gently grazed the flesh of her neck. Erik returned his mouth to hers and she kissed him deeply, fascinated the strange contradiction in his body language; his mouth wanted her, but when she tried to lay back his whole body seemed to fight against it.

Again Erik's mouth moved to her neck, eager to elicited that sweet gasp once more. When she moved to lay back this time he could do nothing but follow, mouth too eager to continue tasting the sweetness of her flesh. Her hands moved into his hair as his kisses moved down to the tops of her breasts, grazing the hemline of her nightgown. She drew another sharp gasp and clutched at his hair. "Oh, Erik," she moaned breathily, and Erik could not control himself; just the sound of her voice uttering his name with such longing and the taste of her flesh brought him to sweet release.

Immediately he moved off of her, suddenly painfully aware of his surroundings. Anya sat up again and frowned deeply when she spotted the small wet mark on his trousers before he turned from her. "Erik, it's okay," she tried to soothe, knowing from his posture it would be no use. "It's normal to be a little… overzealous the first time."

Erik did not answer her, and instead moved deliberately to the tall mirror to the side of the room. In the blink of an eye he was gone, almost as if he had walked clean through the glass. Immediately Anya moved from the bed to the mirror in search of him, finding only her own reflection and frowning deeply. Her whole body ached for him, her breasts and that hidden place between her legs throbbing in ways they hadn't in years. It had been so long since she had loved a man, she thought to herself… but Erik had never before loved a woman, so really she was in no position to complain.

How on earth had that happened? She had only meant to thank him, and within minutes their kissed had become so heated that they had driven Erik to ecstasy and had doomed Anya to an uncomfortable night. What was it that had driven them to such passion so quickly?

* * *

**Author's Note:** Two chapters in one day to make up for my silence the past few days. Also, fixed a few typos in the last chapter that I caught, namely a spot where I wrote "Erik" where I should have written "Anya". D'oh.


	9. Chapter 9

Two weeks after… whatever it was that had happened between he and Anya, Erik had not gone to see her once. He had not dared look through the two-way mirror after what had happened the last time, so deeply ashamed was he at his lack of control. There he had been, with an entire world of possibility lying in bed under him, saying his name as though it were the only name in the world, and he didn't even have the self control to claim it! It was a sign that she simply was not his to be claimed, Erik had decided. No matter how many sweet, sweet nights she entered his dreams since then, he knew he could not stand to see her again in the flesh after what had happened.

But those dreams! If that night could have been half as breathtaking as those dreams, Erik was a fool indeed. A part of him hated those dreams, and wished he could never fall asleep again and avoid their mockery forever… but a part of him longed for their arrival every night, when he could taste Anya's soft, sweet flesh again and no shame would come, only more softness and sweetness, more of his name wrapped in velvety longing.

Erik had not so much as left the house for supplies for those two weeks for fear of meeting her on accident or some other horrible circumstance he could not avoid, but was finally growing desperate. He was down to his very last bottle of wine, and all of the bread had molded. It was time to venture into the aboveground again or rot, and no matter how many times he had promised the shadows that he welcomed the day he could finally lay down and rest permanently, now was not his time to rot.

He was gone for well over an hour and returned with arms full of goods, including a pay slip for several dresses he decided to have made for Anya. As lovely as the gown she took had been, it simply was not made for her. He knew she would likely never have an opportunity to wear the dresses he had purchased considering Erik planned on avoiding her like a leper, but he felt it was appropriate to have them about just in case fantasies come true. He scolded himself quietly for ever thinking such a hopeful thought, knowing it would come back someday to bite him in the ass. Every glimmer of hope he had held always did.

A muffled noise from the direction of the torture chamber drew Erik's attention to the flashing light indicating that the chamber had a resident. Normally, the little flashing light was a pleasant thing; it meant perhaps some wine and entertainment. But since meeting Anya, he had not so much as squashed a flea. Now the little flashing light meant a choice – Ignore it and let the victim within hang himself from madness, or rescue the poor blighter and risk everything. Cautiously, Erik ventured up the steps to peer in through the small window.

Upon seeing a dark skinned man inside, slumped against the tree that held Erik's Punjab lasso, Erik relaxed visibly. Erik could safely let the man go without risk to his secrets. Pushing the button to turn off the contraption, Erik moved down the stairs to meet Nadir Khan in the Louise-Phillipe bedroom. The man looked as weary as if he had spent a month in the desert, but spoke viciously.

"God damn you Erik! Why the hell must you toy with me so? I came alone!"

"You flatter yourself, Daroga. I wasn't in the house or I would have let you out sooner," Erik promised, gesturing to the sacks of supplies on the dining room table just outside the door as he went to fetch the man a glass of water from the kitchen. Nadir drank deeply holding his head a moment; the torture chamber could warp even the soundest of minds, such as Nadir's. For a moment he had quite forgotten he was not in the African jungle and why he had needed to call upon Erik at all.

Suddenly he remembered. "Where is she, Erik?"

A brow raised under the porcelain mask. "Where is who? Surely you don't mean Mademoiselle Daae. I assume she moved with her Beau to England, or to some quiet little country home far away from any Opera Houses," he remarked bitterly while Nadir roamed the house as if looking for something.

"Not Mademoiselle Daae, though I shall hang you like I should have decades ago if I find you are toying with that poor girl again. Madam Chekov."

Erik's heart sank. "Anya is missing?"

Nadir froze and looked to the man, surprised by the sound of concern in his voice. "For nearly twenty four hours now. I was alerted when she did not attend rehearsal last night. You mean to tell me you have nothing to do with it?"

"I may more than I would care to, Daroga," he said sorrowfully, moving to grab his cloak and opening the wall out to the lake.

"What do you mean by that?" Demanded Nadir, following the taller man out into the little boat that would carry them across the lake. "She said you kidnapped her once before, Erik, but that the pair of you were friends now. What have you done?"

"I swear on my life, that is the only moment I have ever been foolish enough to wish harm on her. But I am afraid she may have come looking for me and brought harm on herself. I have not seen her for two weeks, on my word."

"It isn't uncommon for you to lock yourself away for weeks on end. Why should she come looking for you?"

Erik floundered some uncomfortably. "I… we… The last time I saw her… We kiss. Oh Daroga, and what glorious kisses they were! She even asked me if she could kiss me, can you imagine? The more I reflect on it the more I would be certain it was all a dream if it had not been for-"

"Allah, Erik, there times I'm not certain if you're fifty or fifteen. Out with it. What did you do to that poor girl?"

Large yellow eyes glared at the man from beneath the mask. "It is not what I did to her but rather what she did to me. I… was a little 'overzealous', as she sweetly put it, and finished the matter well before it had even started."

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Nadir could not help but laugh. "Oh, Erik! You poor man! I do believe all of mankind has been in your place once or twice, myself included. I am terribly sorry that I laugh… what is it the Germans call it? Shad… Shah something?"

"Schadenfreude," Erik informed him with a glare.

"That's the phrase, schadenfreude! Well, you've been saying for years how you longed to be normal. There you have it, my friend. Women have that way sometimes," Nadir chuckled at the hilarity of the man's misfortune before sobering up at a sudden realization. "Wait. You would not lie to me about something so embarrassing… you mean to say she actually..?"

"Let me kiss her. Yes, Daroga, and more! And she was delighted by it! She was as soft and supple as a ripe peach, and just as sweet to taste! Her neck was the sweetest, but just above those small, beautiful breasts is where she said my name. My name! And how she breathed it as though it were the only name in all the world! Almost as though it were sacred. Oh how I adored Christine, but Daroga! If Christine was the air I breathed, Anya is the blood in my veins, my very life!"

"I thought you detested ballerinas, Erik. I would be wary if I were you. Many a man has mistaken the draw of his loins for something more. Simply because she might actually bed you does not mean it is love, my friend," Nadir cautioned. "Remember that poor girl-"

"From the harem. How could I forget, Daroga?" A girl who's career it was to bed men had chosen death rather than to lay with him. It was a memory that would haunt him his entire life, without a doubt. But Anya! Anya had not be so afraid. Her nature was bolder than any of the women in Persia, except perhaps the women in power.

But she has not seen your face! Nagged the little voice in his brain. Once she sees how terrifying you are, she won't ever touch you again. Consider that your first and last release on top of a woman.

Erik was silent as the boat touched shore. Nadir moved out clumsily while Erik stepped with grace onto the shore to tie the boat before moving off into the darkness.

"I take it we're searching for the girl, but where exactly are we to begin looking. You built a labyrinth fit for a Greek epic, Erik."

"She knows the way for about two hundred yards. We start there and work our way down."

"And if we get separated?"

"Then I suppose I will have to come and find you too. But be warned, I will be looking for her first," Erik told him, and Nadir nodded; he could survive a few days in the cold damp of Erik's world, but the girl had already been missing for at least a day, and was without a doubt a less hearty breed.

For three hours they searched, starting as close up to the theatre as Erik dared to tread while calling out for her. They searched every dead end there was, in spite of Erik's terror that they would find her at the end covered in rats and rot. Finally as the third hour drew to a close, they found her. After hours of calling out for her with no response, finally a small sound returned their calls. Nadir could not pinpoint the origin of the sound, but followed Erik as he ran down a passage, stopping as a wall rose before him with a shivering damp mass sat at its feet. Erik fell to his knees beside her and immediately wrapper her in his cloak, wishing he had brought something warmer for her; winter was fast approaching, and while it was never quite freezing in the cellars it could get quite close, and the moisture and cold had killed before.

"You're here," Anya whispered hoarsely before coughing deeply as Erik pulled her into his arms. "I thought you were going to leave me…"

"Why would you ever think such a thing, ma chère?" Soothed Erik as he picked her up. Nadir removed his coat and draped it over the girl in Erik's arms.

"I'll go ahead and call the medics-"

"No," snapped Erik. "There isn't time, and if you get lost she will only get worse. We will bring her to my house. I have enough blankets and a fire."

With great hesitation, Nadir nodded his agreement and moved with them further down into the cellars.

"You told me you could hear everything that happens. When I got lost I called for you, but you never came. I thought maybe you were still upset about…"

"I am, ma chère, but not at you. Never at you," Erik promised. "I can only hear everything in the Opera when I am listening. I simply was not listening is all. I would never, ever leave you like this," he swore, and Anya coughed again.

"If she's caught pneumonia she'll need a physician," Nadir insisted, and Erik shook his head.

"It isn't pneumonia yet, it's only the damp. And a physician couldn't do any more for her than I could," Erik countered, finally finding the boat at the edge of the lake. "I am not certain it will hold all three of us. It is a tight fit."

Nadir nodded. "Take her across and set her by the fire, come back for me only when she is out of danger," he insisted, and Erik nodded his gratitude as he set Anya in the boat carefully and rowed them across. Gently he picked up the shivering bundle and carried her inside, laying her on the divan while he piled pillows onto the floor in front of the fireplace and lit the fire within, opening the flue to let the smoke out into the world above. He carefully laid Anya out on the pillows and covered her in every blanket he owned

"Ma chère, will you be all right while I fetch the Daroga?"

"You're going to come back, aren't you?" she whispered, turning away from the fire to look up at him.

Against his better judgment, Erik leaned over her and pressed his lips against hers, gently. "Of course I am. Try to rest, I will be back before long," he promised, quickly moving back out to the boat to fetch Nadir as quickly as possible.

Nadir breathed a sigh of relief when Erik reached the shore. "She is all right?"

"Not yet, but I believe she will be. She was still shivering when we found her, which is a good sign; men beyond saving give up even on shivering," Erik told his friend, who nodded as he stepped into the boat.

"And her cough?"

"She wasn't coughing when I left, but I am going to make a broth when we return just in case."

They stepped inside the house, which was already warming considerably from the fire in the fireplace. Erik moved to check on Anya, and satisfied with her condition moved into the kitchen to make a broth from vegetables and chicken bones. Nadir moved to check on the woman and found her sleeping deeply, wrapped tight in blankets and no longer shaking. He couldn't help but wonder at her loveliness as she slept. She was thin, he remembered from meeting her, but her cheeks were full and healthy unlike so many of the ballerinas in France, and her lips were as full and soft as her cheeks. It was easy to see why Erik was attracted to the woman… but what drew such a lovely woman to Erik? He was mentally and physically deformed.

Nadir moved into the kitchen and watched as his old friend put chicken bones into a pot. "She's lovely, Erik."

"Isn't she, though? You ought to see her smile! She is a work of art, Daroga. A living, breathing work of art. To watch her dance… it's like watching poetry in motion."

"Erik, I'm worried about you. You… have a certain penchant for pretty women. For beauty in general, Erik. Who can blame you? But you also… have a tendency to misread people. You don't understand mankind well enough to-"

"To what, Daroga?" Erik demanded with a glare. "Actually be in love? For someone to fall in love with me? She kissed me, Nadir. SHE kissed ME. And maybe it didn't mean anything, but then she kissed me again… I can't explain it. It wasn't like when Christine kissed me. There was heat, passion even… longing in her touch. I don't understand it any more than you do, Daroga. But it is the truth."

Nadir sighed some and nodded. "She did seem glad to see you."

"She did, didn't she? She's going to be all right," Erik told himself more than the Persian. "I'll take you back up to the surface,"

The Persian man frowned. "I would rather stay until she's well, if you don't mind."

"You don't trust me alone with her!" Erik accused angrily.

"Can you blame me, Erik?"

"I can! When have I ever harmed a woman, as long as you've known me? Oh I have wanted to, and many times I have come painfully close, but never since you've known me have I harmed a woman!"

"And the little Italian girl you told me of? Who fell from a roof at the sight of your face? What of her, Erik?"

"That was an accident!" Erik told him, anguished. "A horrible, horrible accident. I would never let such a thing happen again. Please, Daroga. She is going to be sleeping for a while, and I would rather not put up with your incessant prying while she does."

After a long moment of hesitation, the Daroga finally nodded. "All right. But I will be at the Opera first thing in the morning. If she is nowhere to be seen by then, I will be back."

"I assure you Daroga, she will be back where she belongs by morning. Giselle debuts in two weeks, she cannot afford to miss rehearsals."

With that promise, Erik returned Nadir to the streets of Paris through it catacombs as quickly as he could to return to Anya in as little time as possible. An hour after he left her side he returned to find her sitting upright, staring into the fire still swathed in blankets. Erik immediately moved to her side, inspecting her closely for signs of fever.

"How do you feel, Anya? You should be sleeping."

"Cold, but better," she promised with a quiet smile. "Where is Monsieur Khan? I thought you left to fetch him?"

"I did, and I returned him to the surface while you were sleeping," Erik explained.

"Was I asleep so long? I thought I had only closed my eyes for a minute."

"Not too long, two hours or so at the most," Erik stood and vanished into the kitchen, returning with a steaming bowl of broth and vegetables. "I had thought you would be sleeping for longer, it probably isn't very flavorful yet. But it will warm you."

"Thank you, Erik," She smiled accepting the bowl and blowing on it gently before taking a sip of the hot liquid, already feeling warmer. "I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble. I just… wanted to make sure you weren't upset with me. About what happened."

"I promise, my upset is not with you," Erik told her quietly. "It was my own fault."

"It wasn't anybody's fault, Erik. These things happen. I was… a little flattered by it, actually. I haven't… aroused a man like that in a long time," she whispered, taking another sip of the broth. Erik longed to tell her it was not the first time she had aroused him, nor the last, but he thought better of it.

"Why don't I draw you a bath? It will help warm you even better than the fire."

Anya nodded. "That sounds wonderful, actually. Thank you."

Erik dismissed her thanks with a wave and moved into the bathroom of the Louise-Phillipe bedroom to heat a bath for her, adding salts and oils he imported from the Middle East to soothe her. Before too long he returned to the fireside and took her empty bowl. "The bath is ready for you. There is a towel by the bath and clothes in the wardrobe. I had the dress you left before cleaned, it is in the wardrobe as well," he told her, wishing he had purchased her gowns a few days prior so she might have something that fit besides her drab garments from her prior visit. Anya stood and smiled to him with another quiet thank you, moving past him into the bedroom still wrapped in blankets.

A small part of her wanted to ask if he would join her, but she thought better of it and closed the door quietly behind her. A small part of Erik wished she would have asked.


	10. Chapter 10

Anya looked through the wardrobe, deciding on her less elegant but better fitted dress rather than the elaborate gowns made for another woman. It bothered her somewhat that after their interlude, Erik still kept these gowns made for another woman. It was almost as if he was waiting for her to return, four years later. She frowned some, pulling on her dress and tying it neatly before stepping out into the main portion of the house.

Erik was seated by the fire, reading. When she appeared he closed his book and stood. "Do you feel better? I can get you a coat if you're still cold."

"I feel much better, thank you Erik. It's good to be warm and dry again," she smiled gently to assure him she was well. "The bath was wonderful. What did you put in it?"

"Just some oils and spiced salts from India and Persia. I find them relaxing, I thought you might as well."

"I did. They reminded me of the way your friend Nadir's house smelled when I went to visit him. Exotic, but wonderful," she smiled.

"He seemed quite taken with you," Erik muttered some. "What exactly did you talk about while you were over there?"

Anya raised a brow at her friend. "Just the things you told me, about your time in Persia. Also about some of the… things that happened there that you hadn't mentioned."

"Such as?"

"Your career as a political assassin, from what I could gather. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Erik told her, more glad that Nadir had left out the death of the harem girl who had refused him than he was angry about the less savory portions of his past being revealed.

"I don't hold it against you, if that is what you are wondering," she told him quietly. "I believe Nadir when he says you did what you had to in order to survive."

"He was certainly correct in saying that," Erik promised. "Though I did a good many awful things while I was there I likely could have survived without doing."

Anya raised a brow at him, and Erik quickly changed the subject. "Would you care for a glass of wine?"

"If you didn't want me to know about your time in Persia, why send me to the man who knows it best? What exactly did you do that you won't tell me, Erik?"

"…I do not regret most of the murders I committed while in Persia. The vast majority of them were men who had been sentenced to death for crimes I am certain they committed, and the others were men who could have brought great destruction to Mazenderan. I do however regret a great deal of the things I did to my own body in those days. I developed several habits that haunt me to this day, in one form or another."

The woman tipped her head curiously. "Such as?"

"…I smoked a considerable amount of opium and hashish, before I realize how thoroughly they were destroying my lungs. My voice has never quite been the same since then."

"But Erik, you have a wonderful voice. That lullaby you sang to me was stunning."

"You should have heart me before Persia. My voice was simply divine. Now it is great, but not to the level it was."

"Was that all then?" She asked curiously, feeling as though he were being a little hard on himself; Persia must have been nearly thirty years ago for him, and he was still fretting over the way smoking changed his voice?

"Not entirely," he admitted quietly. "When I stopped smoking opium and hashish, I turned to morphine. It is a habit I have kept off and on for thirty years."

The woman's eyes widened. "Thirty years of taking morphine? It's a wonder you haven't died, Erik! You're not on it now, are you?" She demanded harshly, and Erik shook his head furiously.

"I haven't had a drop for weeks… but I was using it when I met you, that first night. I haven't needed it for months though, I swear it," he told her as eagerly as a child explaining a bad habit to his mother. Anya breathed a small sigh of relief; she had seen what drugs like morphine could do to a man, and she did not like it one bit. It did not surprise her in the least that Erik had been high when they had first met, in hindsight. He seemed a completely different man now than he had that day.

Anya was quiet for a long moment, accepting a glass of wine from the masked man before speaking. "Erik, now that I'm actually here I think we ought to talk about what I came to talk to you about," she ventured, a little uneasily. Erik had been hoping she would simply be too grateful to be alive to bring up such an embarrassing topic again, but he supposed there was no avoiding it now.

"And what might that be, Anya?" He asked, though they both knew he already knew the answer.

"It's about the night I last saw you…"

"Haven't we spoken about it enough?" Erik demanded some, impatiently.

"No Erik, we haven't. I wanted to let you know… if you wanted… I think we ought to give it another try," she whispered, eyes on her wine glass as she sat at the dining table, awaiting his judgment. She had played out admitting this to him a hundred times in her mind, and each time it had gone differently. Some times he kissed her and took her to the little bedroom without any hesitation at all. Other times he became so furious at the idea he left in a rage, or even struck her. Other times still he berated her and called her a whore… Never had she imagined the awestruck, uncomfortable silence she was met with.

"Erik, did you-"

"I heard you, Anya. Or at least I think I did," he told her quietly. "You… You honestly want to be with me?"

Anya opened and closed her mouth several times before realizing she probably looked as dim as a herring and finally spoke without considering her words. "It's been a long time since I've been with a man, and even longer since a man has made me feel as… wanted as you made me feel," she told him quickly, but quietly. "I know we aren't married and that it is horribly, horribly improper. But what is marriage but a promise to a virgin that the only thing she has of value will not be exchanged for nothing? I am earning my own living, I have a roof over my head and food in my belly, and I am certainly not a virgin... so what do I need a husband for, especially if I plan to leave for America eventually? And you, you have been so wonderful to me, and your touch made me feel like a Goddess…" She stopped herself there, realizing she was rambling when Erik stared at her incredulously.

"Anya… there are things you should know about me before you decide things like this," Erik told her softly, sitting across from her at the table unable to look at her.

"Such as? Erik if this is about the mask again, the both of us were getting on just fine with it on before," she pointed out. Erik opened his mouth as if to pose a counter argument before realizing she was quite right. Her hands had even been in his hair and the mask had not budged or disgusted her in the least. And it wasn't as if she was asking him to remove it…

"I don't know that I could handle that sort of… shame again. Not in front of you. You _are_ a Goddess, a work of art-"

"I promise you, Erik. It is perfectly normal. Besides, I've heard from some women that their men… last longer when that happens, sometimes," Anya told him, honestly. "They are less easily excited when things get going, apparently. I can't say I know from experience though; Luka always left well enough alone when he was finished. But it might be worth a try."

Never in his life could he have imagined any woman, let alone such a stunning, wonderful masterpiece would be attempting to talk him into bedding her. Where was his head? If he had any sense at all he would throw her to the table and take her on the spot… But that wasn't what he wanted. Anya deserved nothing less than perfection, which he learned well the last time he was not capable of.

The woman could sense his hesitation and frowned some. "If you're not interested, I understand," she told him quietly. "I feel like a terrible slut for even asking."

"No! Anya you mustn't think that for a moment!" Erik pleaded with her. "You cannot possibly understand the gravity of what it is you are offering. To you it is no small thing, but to me… to me it is the world. I have been denied so many times, yet here you are, so remarkably beautiful, and clever, and adored, and… offering me something magnificent. I am not deserving of such a gift, I've already proven that."

"Let me decide that, if it really is such a gift," Anya frowned. "I am not offering you my virginity, Erik. I have nothing of real value to give you. But… I miss being close to a man, in the same way you long to be close to a woman. I didn't even realize how I missed it until I almost had it again. And I care for you dearly Erik, I do. You are my closest and dearest friend, in so many ways. I would not regret being with you for a moment."

"…All right. But let us not plan it. The other night was so… natural. So beautiful. That is the only way I would ever think to lay with you," he whispered, unable to believe his words even as they came out of his mouth. Was this really happening?

Anya smiled softly and nodded. "Yes, I agree. It was unexpected and wonderful," the truth, even if it did leave her aching at the end of the night.

"I should bring you back to the surface, I suspect it will be morning soon."

"I haven't even finished my wine," she complained, but Erik was standing and moving for his coat in the Louise-Phillipe room where it sat under the pile of blankets on the bed. With a small sigh she stood also, abandoning her wine at the table and moving after him. "I've upset you somehow, haven't I?"

"Not at all, ma chère," Erik promised quietly. "I truly have never been so… honored in all my life. I simply worry that I will desire my gift too soon if you stay much longer," he admitted.

"Well, what is wrong with that?" she asked him quietly.

"I'm afraid my eagerness would turn the sweetness of the moment sour, ma chère," Erik explained, opening up the hole in the wall to take them out to the boat. Anya caught his meaning; in spite of her assurances he was terrified of a repeat performance of the last time they had met. Quietly she stepped into the boat, and allowed Erik to take her to the surface. They came a different way than she recognized however.

"…This is the mirror in my room!" She announced, incredulously. "Erik, have you been watching me?" Anya demanded, suddenly very self away in spite of her desire to sleep with him; she wanted him to see her on her own terms, not for his own lewd amusement.

"No!" He exclaimed quickly. "Well… yes. But now how you think! I've never once watched you when you were indecent, only while you've slept. I used to come out this way before you started using the room. I came to the mirror one night while you slept and saw it was you who occupied it… you look like an angel when you sleep, I had to come back."

Anya wanted to be angry, but his awkward, honest charms simply would not allow it. "…That is one of the sweetest things anyone has said about me, Erik. But you must stop it! I will be terribly paranoid I'm being watched now," she frowned. "Who else knows about this mirror?"

"Only the previous occupant of the room," promised Erik. "And she may be too dim to have recognized it, come to think of it."

"…Christine occupied this room before? You built this to watch her," she spoke, a certain uncontrollable amount of hurt in her voice.

"Not exactly," he promised, still feeling quite ashamed. "I built it long before she arrived to get in and out of the main parts of the opera without being seen. But it was no accident that she inhabited this room," Erik admitted quietly.

"…Was it an accident I inhabited this room?" Or am I just a suitable replacement for your long lost beloved? She wanted to add, but thought better of it.

"Yes. It's gone unused for years, why do you think I started using it as an exit again?" He pointed out, and Anya nodded. "I've upset you," Erik frowned, and Anya shook her head.

"No… well. Yes, but it isn't your fault. It's my own stupidity is all. Goodnight, Erik," she told him firmly making it quite clear she did not wish to continue the conversation and knowing full well her jealous was inappropriate. Erik nodded without pressing her, and pulled the lever that would take her into the room. Suddenly she was on the inside of her room, and she turned to look back at the mirror. How like an ordinary mirror it looked! She ventured forward to inspect the mirror more closely, trying her best to peer past her reflection to the darkness beyond. She nearly jumped out of her skin when suddenly the faint outline of Erik's form appeared in the mirror.

"I am standing nearly directly against the mirror and this is the best you can see me," He told her from inside the room itself, not sounding muffled by the mirror at all. "When I step back," he paused and suddenly his silhouette faded. "You can see nothing. But you have my word, I will not watch you any longer," he promised, and Anya nodded.

"All right. Good night, Erik," she told him, almost feeling guilty for telling him he could not watch. It was a little unnerving… but flattering just the same.

"Sleep well, Anya."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Long chapter for you tonight! The longest I've written for any of my stories, I think. I wanted to split it into two chapters, but it would have been one short chapter and one still pretty long one, so I decided to keep them combined.

* * *

"No, no, no!" Snapped the ballet mistress, pounding her cane into the stage to emphasize each word. "What has gotten into you, woman? Giselle is innocent, naïve, love struck, you dance like you belong in a Turkish harem!"

Anya hung her head some, flushing deeply. "I'm sorry, Madame. I'll try again."

"Yes, you will. And if you wouldn't mind dancing the piece with a little less lust so we could all get on with the scene, I'm sure we would all be very much obliged."

The girls in the wings snickered and whispered among themselves while Anya held her head high, refusing to let the jab effect her in front of those little rats.

Giselle was set to open that night, and still Erik had not so much as said hello let alone come to visit her. Anya certainly wasn't surprised; she had suspected this might happen the moment she returned to her room two weeks prior. Her boldness had surely frightened him off. She couldn't say she blamed him; if a man had been so bold with her, Anya would likely have slapped him. Unless perhaps that man were Erik… but that was another matter.

Even suspecting Erik might return to ignoring her, Anya found the gesture still stung. What was it about that man that drew her to him so? She could not explain it, but the man certainly had a way of capturing her imagination in the best and worst ways imaginable.

After the final dress rehearsal was through and the cast was dismissed to rest before the performance, Anya returned to her room, politely returning the half-hearted wishes for luck from the girls who still did not believe she had earned the part she played. Closing the door behind her, Anya immediately flopped into her small bed with an exhausted sigh. Checking the clock, she pulled herself out of bed deciding against sleeping before the performance; she was so tired there was a good chance she might sleep right up until the curtain call.

When she sat up, Anya noticed a small vase with a single red rose on the center of the vanity. At the base of the thin vase was a small card with a short but sweet message.

_"I look forward to your debut_

_-Erik"_

Not the Opera Ghost, simply Erik. For the first time in weeks she no longer felt alone as she sat at the vanity to apply her make-up for the performance and changed into her costume before stretching, humming to herself sweetly in her lightened mood. She had not realized how much she relied on Erik's companionship until the times he vanished like this. The first two week period had worried her so much she had gotten herself lost in the cellars seeking him out, and the second had left her feeling abandoned and alienated in this strange but beautiful country full of beautiful people who wanted nothing more than to see her miss a step and break an ankle, or to catch her in an act of passion with someone who far outranked her. Such petty competitiveness! Had she really been so cruel in her youth? Anya could only remember admiring the women who outranked her in the ballet, and could not recall any desire to spread such horrible rumors about them. Granted, they had all quite clearly earned their status.

Stroking the petals of the rose for luck, Anya moved out to the stage to perform. How she had longed for this moment! The thrill of being someone she wasn't for two full hours was an incomparable sensation. The telling of a story through her movements, feeling so incredibly graceful and beautiful, the polite applause of the audience after a particularly impressive looking or challenging set of movements was simply astounding. There was no other feeling like it in the world. This was where she had been raised, and after over a year of absence she was finally home. Why on earth had she wanted to go to America to teach this wonderful art when she still desired to live it?

The curtain fell and Anya smiled brilliantly as the girls around her squealed and moved to embrace her. "Oh Anya, you were stunning, simply stunning. None of your rehearsals have ever been so good! Watch the Mistress try and scold you now! It was like watching Giselle herself!" They prattled on over each other until Anya found herself growing quite impatient with them. What a strange group of women! Only hours before they were mocking her during a rehearsal, and now they all were desperate for her attention. Anya took her final bow upon the stage politely, looking quite alarmed when the manager Moncharmin approached her on the stage. He waved to the audience with delight and the theatre hushed.

"Madames and Messieurs, a bright new star upon our stage, Madame Anya Chekov!" Once again the applause began, and Anya was beginning to feel rather like a piece of livestock as opposed to an artist.

Moncharmin spoke with a brilliant smile upon his face. "Would you believe it was less than a year ago that Madam Chekov came to us outside of church one morning, all but begging for work?" Anya now turned a hundred shades of red and tried desperately to slip out of the man's grasp to no avail. "And less than three months ago, she was polishing the stage rather than lighting it as beautifully as she did tonight. And who do we have to thank for this wonderful performance this evening? Why, none other than the Opera Ghost!" Announced the man, gesturing with a flourish up to the Box Five, and Anya went from deep red to sickly pale in an instant. The entire theatre fell under a horrified silence and every head turned to the box.

"Monsieur Moncharmin, please, I am very tired…"

"I am certain you are, Madame Chekov," smiled Moncharmin as a significant amount of struggling came from the box high above the stage. Oh God, what was happening? The theatre began to buzz with nervous chatter before the struggling stopped, and a group of policemen dragged an unconscious masked figure down the main aisle of the ground floor of the theatre. The figure's head was hung, but Anya could tell something was wrong… The figure wore a full mask, unlike the one she had seen Erik wear that revealed his bottom lip and enabled him to speak unhindered. Also, the color of his hair was off… Erik's hair was as thin, but black as pitch. And wasn't Erik taller-

No. No, it was not Erik! Anya tried not to show her visible relief as Moncharmin turned to her and gestured to the unconscious man below them. "Madame Chekov, this is your benefactor, is it not?" Asked the man, clearly feeling quite smug that he had succeeded in finally capturing the Opera Ghost.

Anya thought rapidly, and only stuttered a bit when she spoke. "I… Yes, Monsieur, it is," she told the man, though she honestly had no idea who the man in the mask really was.

"Well, let us see who it is once and for all then, shall we? Remove the mask!" Barked Moncharmin, and as one of the policemen pulled the full mask off the man's face the entire audience gasped.

"Ri-Richard?" Stammered Moncharmin, and Anya covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Immediately Moncharmin left the stage to see to his partner, who was slowly regaining consciousness and attempting to speak in spite of the gag in his mouth. The entire audience groaned, suspecting some sort of prank; many of them had been present during the last attempt to catch the infamous phantom, and both Richard and Moncharmin had been present at the time.

Anya's delight was interrupted by a booming voice, which caused even her to jump nearly out of her skin. "Really, Monsieurs, did you think a Ghost would be so easy to catch? Even with such magnificent bait as your new star, you cannot ever expect to contain me. Allow me to demonstrate what precisely might happen should you dare try such a feat again," snarled the voice. The whole room seemed to quiver as the chandelier flickered and swung wildly above the audience. Women shrieked and men shouted as the entire room vacated in a panic. Anya all but fell back against the curtain in terror as the lights went out completely. A hand snaked over her mouth to quiet her shriek as another arm wrapped around her, keeping her on her feet and pulling her someplace unseen in the darkness. The lights backstage were all lit, and suddenly Anya was released into the flurry of panicking ballet rats. Shaking some, she made her way to her dressing room, closing and bolting the door behind her in an attempt to avoid the chaos outside.

The room was now completely filled with flowers of every shape and size, nestled neatly into vases fit for royalty. But her mind could not be quieted by the beauty; what on earth had just happened!

"I apologize for my absence of late," said a voice from inside the room that seemed to have no source. Anya sighed visibly in relief.

"Erik! What the hell has gotten into you?"

"Do you not like the flowers I brought for you?"

"…You're responsible for all of these?"

"All of the tasteful ones. The tackier bouquets were sent by your admirers during intermission," Erik explained, still unseen as Anya looked around at the flowers.

"They're beautiful, Erik. I do like them. But what on earth was that wretched display just now? And why didn't you warn me what was going to happen? I was scared half out of my wits!"

Suddenly the man appeared behind her, in front of the door she could have sworn she bolted. "I was too busy preparing for it to tell you. I found out about their plan not long after I returned you, and I had many preparations to make. Don't worry, the chandelier is at no risk of falling. It was just an illusion to frighten them out of trying again. Though it turns out the catwalk is just as nice a place to watch the production as the best Box in the house, so perhaps I should have been more lenient."

"You planned to frame Richard all along?"

"I did. Rather clever, don't you think?"

Anya couldn't help but smile a little. "I nearly cried I was trying so hard not to laugh. I swear on my life, I knew it wasn't you," she added. "If I had thought it was you I never would have said-"

"I know. I thank you for playing along, it made for quite an entertaining evening. You were truly marvelous tonight," Erik told her quietly, almost shyly. She smiled at his praise.

"Thank you. After all the scolding I've been receiving the past few days in rehearsals, I'm glad it went well."

"Scolding?"

The woman flushed some under her makeup, moving to the vanity to remove it to avoid looking at him. "Apparently I've been dancing like… how did the woman put it? Ah yes, as though I belonged in a Turkish harem."

Erik laughed, and Anya glared at him some over her shoulder as he perched on the edge of her bed. "Perhaps I shall request the next performance be The Abduction of the Seraglio if the part so suits you."

"Ha-ha," Anya told him sarcastically, knowing quite well the opera was set in, what else, a Turkish harem. "You're a real riot sometimes, has anyone ever told you?" She told him dryly.

The man frowned some. "I've offended you."

Anya sighed. "No. I'm sorry, it's been a strange day is all," she promised, turning back to him once the layers of powder were off her face. "First that awful rehearsal, then the performance, then all this nonsense with the managers, then you scaring the living daylights out of half of France… It's a lot to deal with all in one day. I'm afraid it's put me a little too on edge… What is it you're staring at?" She demanded when she caught him staring at her face intently. As soon as she called attention to it, his eyes diverted to the floor.

"Nothing. You missed a bit of powder is all," he lied, and Anya turned to inspect herself in the mirror.

"No I didn't, you rotten liar. Well, out with it."

"I… You look lovely with a fresh face is all," he promised quietly. "Not that you don't always look lovely, it's just that you're always wearing at least a little kohl on your eyes even when you're working-"

Anya smiled some and approached him where he sit on the bed. "You're right, I always wear a little kohl. You really pay attention to thinks like that? You notice the strangest things."

Erik nodded some. "Very little escapes my notice. It is a gift and a curse."

"I would certainly call it a gift," she smiled, sitting next to him on the bed. "I'm really glad you're all right. For a moment I thought they really caught you. I felt awful."

"They've tried and failed before, they will try and fail again," Erik promised. His heart skipped in his chest as Anya cupped his masked cheek in her hand and leaned over him to kiss him gently. Erik let her, and after a moment of Erik began to return the kiss. Anya pulled back with a smile.

"What was that for?" Ventured Erik quietly, eyes fixated on the ground.

"For being so clever and not getting yourself arrested. And for not killing anyone in the process," she added. "I get the feeling that was probably the alternative…"

"It would have been, yes," Erik admitted and Anya leaned over to kiss him again. Erik returned the gesture immediately this time, something that pleased Anya immensely. Without warning the kisses deepened, and like before the room began to feel terribly warm as their heart rates quickened. Anya hummed in delight against his mouth, the quiet vibration sending chills up his spine. How was she able to do this to him, to manipulate his body so with only her mouth and the small sounds she made? Erik decided he would probably never know, but how he delighted in every miniscule sensation. Every movement of her lips, every hum, the feel of her hands on the nape of his neck drove him wild with desire.

Carefully her hands moved to his shirt and before Erik realized it his shirt was unbuttoned and being pushed off his shoulders by cool hands. Erik's kisses moved to that place on her neck that made her toes curl and her fingers grasp his hair involuntarily. He had only kissed her like this once yet already he knew her secret places as well if not better than her husband had ever bothered to learn them. After a moment her eyes slid open, and Anya caught sight of Erik's back and gasped audibly. One of the hands that had been in Erik's hair shot to her mouth as he pulled away in alarm.

What she had seen had horrified her, but not for the reasons that enraged Erik; his back showed every rib and every vertebrae as pronounced as if his skin were merely parchment stretched across a skeleton. Anya had known he was thin, but she could not have possibly imagined exactly now sickly he appeared. What horrified here more still were the countless ancient scars that crossed and dotted his back, causing her eyes to well with tears.

"Well? Go on and say it!" Snapped Erik. "I knew this was a horrible idea! I knew you would regret ever touching me the moment you saw-"

"You stupid, stupid man!" Snapped Anya back with a small sob. "Please, do not insult me so. Or yourself, for that matter. My heart aches for you," she told him tearfully, reaching out and touching one of the scars on his shoulder and running her fingers down the hollows of his ribs. Erik hissed, and closed his eyes involuntarily at the gentleness of her touch. "I knew you would not be beautiful," Anya told him quietly. "But I never imagined the scars on your heart would be so visible."

Erik opened his mouth as if to argue before deciding against it. As if testing her words, he ventured forward and took her lips gently. She did not recoil or draw away in disgust, but rather deepened the gesture passionately, as if her lips might erase his scars. Erik kissed her back deeply, and after a few moments Anya drew away again. Erik was about to berate her when he saw her turn and reach behind her back, pulling the ties of her costume dress loose before slipping it off over her head. The sight of her nearly stopped Erik's heart. Her ribs showed nearly as much as his did, though her ribcage was far more slight and so the effect was less dramatic. She was thin, with small but firm breasts and a prominent collar bone that seemed even more graceful as she sat before him, bare but her tights.

Anya turned a deep shade of red when Erik inspected her so thoroughly, not used to such careful scrutiny. Not for the first time that night, she felt like livestock… but then Erik reached forward, and caressed the curve of her waist with such grace and affection, gooseflesh consumed her head to foot. "Forgive me," he whispered, eyes still roving her top to bottom. "I've never seen… I've never seen a woman in the flesh but for statues and paintings. I never imagined the real thing would surpass them all," he muttered, and Anya leaned forward to kiss him firmly on the mouth.

Where moments before she had felt like a cow at auction, she now felt more beautiful than she had in her entire life. Nobody in her entire life had said such kind things about her. She was always too thin, or too big, or too tall, or too short. Never in her life had she been compared to and even surpassed a painting. Anya kissed him and kissed him until his hands seemed unsure of where to touch now that she was barren. She guided his hands to her waist, shivering under his touch as she guided his hands up her front. With an indulgent sound, Erik moved to kiss everywhere his hands touched and Anya laid back on the small bed to let him. He seemed intent on tasting her from hip bone to mouth, and Anya was more than content to let him indulge. Finally she drew him back up to her mouth and wriggled out of her tights from under him, when he froze so like he had before after a small sound of pained pleasure as her hips brushed his.

The woman clutched at him as if in terror and kissed his neck fervently. "Don't leave again, Erik. We're so close," she begged, cupping his masked face and kissing him deeply. "Please stay."

Every time Erik tried to protest Anya consumed his words with her mouth, kissing him deeply again and again to ease his shame and convey her desire. When he finally began to kiss her back again and she began to feel the renewed desire in his kisses, Anya moved her hands down to the edge of his trousers. To her delight and surprise, Erik only hesitated a moment before moving off her and removing them before returning to her and kissing her again, deeply.

True to the rumors, Erik was much less easily released after his initial embarrassment. He was clumsy and unsure of himself until he fell into a rhythm that gratified them both before too long. Anya's toes curled and her breath caught in her chest as she clung to the man who groaned involuntarily not long after, collapsing over her utterly exhausted.

Erik kissed at her neck lazily, and could not remember ever feeling so whole in his life. This… this was happiness. True happiness. No high in the world was the equal to the high this woman gave him. "I love you," he whispered between kisses, not noticing the change in the woman beneath him. "I cannot imagine anyone more wonderful," a kiss, "more beautiful," another kiss, "more remarkable-"

"Erik you don't really mean that," she ventured, turning her head back to him with a bit of a frown.

"Of course I do," he promised, kissing her soundly, and Anya shook her head.

"No no no no no, Erik, you don't really love me," she insisted firmly, and Erik sat up to stare at her incredulously.

"…You mean you don't love me," he corrected her simply, hurt filling his voice as he stood to dress with his jaw set.

"Erik you can't expect me to love you just because we-"

"No, Anya, quite the opposite. I expected that just happened because you loved me," he told her, pointing at the bed as she sat up and held the sheets around her breast with a frown.

"Erik-"

"If all I wanted from a woman was sex I would have raped you when I had the chance," he snaped.

Anya bit the inside of her cheeks, trying hard not to cry. "I certainly don't think that was just sex, Erik. It's not that I don't care about you."

"No, Anya, it's that you don't love me," he retorted with a sneer. "I understand perfectly well, thank you."

"You don't love me either!" She countered, folding her arms tight. "You keep dresses and a room for a woman who left you years ago! It's quite obvious where your heart belongs! You only think you love me because I bedded you and she ran off with another man."

"For a woman your age you are so naïve!" Erik bemoaned, buttoning his shirt. "That day I fished you out of the cellars? I had just gotten back from purchasing you an entire wardrobe in case you somehow showed up in my house again. You just had the misfortune of arriving before they were ready."

"…I had only been to your house twice. Why did you buy me an entire wardrobe?"

"Because I love you, how man God damn times must I say it?" He snapped angrily. "I had hoped you would show up again someday, and I wanted to be prepared. I bought you ballet slippers, dresses, these God damned flowers," Erik growled, swiping one of the vases off a bedside table and sending it crashing to the floor. "And you still mock my love!"

"Nobody is mocking you, Erik!" Anya insisted. "But please, try and see things from where I stand. Christine-"

"Damn Christine to hell for all I care!" Seethed Erik. "She left me bloody and broken for a man with half a brain and a full pocketbook! I can no sooner love her than a camel loves a flea!"

"But you DID love her, Erik. You may not now, but you did. You loved her enormously, so much that she was able to hurt you deeply when she left. You told her of your love before you asked her to marry you! Me… You told me of your love after we made it. It's all in your mind Erik, not in your heart. It must be."

"Is marriage what you want, Anya? If it is just say the word and we will go to a church and it will be done! I would marry you over all the women in the world, without hesitation," he swore, moving back to her side and taking her hands in his while her eyes glued themselves to the floor.

"Please don't do this, Erik."

"Why shouldn't I? I would be the happiest man in the world if I could call you my bride! Your husband's loss would be my sweet, wonderful gain-"

Anya pulled her eyes off the floor tearfully, knowing what she was about to say, what she had no choice but to say would mean not seeing him again for potentially quite some time. "I cannot marry you Erik. I… I'm still in love with my husband. If there is a God in heaven I pray that he gives me the strength to put the past where it belongs, and perhaps when that day comes I will love you as you deserve to be loved," she whispered through her tears, moving to cup his cheek until he turn away from her viciously and stood. "Why must it be all or nothing in your world?" She sobbed. "Why can I not care for you as deeply as I do and not call it love? Fifteen years I spent with him Erik! I have known you less than a year, and I have been this fond of you less than that! Have patience-"

"Good evening, Madame Chekov," Erik sneered as he stepped through the mirror, and Anya cupped her face into her hands and cried.

No man had ever made her feel as Erik did. Even when her husband had been trying to woo her, he had not worshiped her the way Erik did. He had never used such sweet, poetic words, with no intent at all but to describe her as he saw her. He was not trying to woo her; it had been she who had to persuade him into bed! In fifteen years of intimacy with her husband, he had only brought her to that breath-taking release once… Erik had managed on his first try, and on his first time with any woman no less! Erik had already learn the places to kiss that brought her pleasure, his voice and words alone could send shivers down her spine… the best her husband had done for her was drink too much to bring himself to completion, which had inadvertently brought her to hers.

So why could she not love this strange, remarkable man who lived so far removed from the world?


	12. Chapter 12

When Anya woke the next morning, there was a neat, thick envelope on the little table by the bed, propped up against one of the many vases filled with flowers. The smell of the buds was overwhelming in the light of her depression; normally she would have delighted in the strong floral fragrance, but there was simply no reason to be happy this morning. Anya sat up and took the note, clutching the blankets to her bare breast in spite of the fact she was alone in the room. An envelope meant she hadn't been alone the entire while, and after Erik's departure last night she was rather embarrassed that she had never bothered to dress if he had come back in to leave her a note.

As soon as she opened the envelope, Anya's eyes widened at its contents; franc upon franc filled the envelope to its capacity. It was more money than Anya would make during the entire run of Giselle even if they extended the production through Christmas. Hell, it was probably more money than she would earn all season even if she managed to keep her rank of prima after Erik's trick on the managers. Immediately she pulled out the folded piece of paper inside.

"Madame,

I spoke with one of the women at the Moulin Rouge about what it runs to deprive a man of his virginity these days; she advised me this was the price for a high end girl. Consider it payment for your services. I believe it ought to cover your boat the Americas, and then some."

The note was not signed, but Anya knew very well who it was from and her teeth clenched tightly in anger. Erik thought her a whore! What, did he expect to flatter her by paying the price for "high end" tramp? Ha!

Anya dressed hastily and pounded her fist against the mirror. "Erik, you bastard! If you think I'm just going to take this sitting down you've got another thing coming!" She shouted angrily, half considering taking one of the vases and smashing the mirror to bits. She restrained herself, however; if anyone were to come in and see a gaping hole where the mirror ought to have been, it would surely cause a great deal of suspicion. Anya was livid with him, but did not dare to think about what might happen if someone were to find out even one of Erik's secrets.

"I thought you might say that," came a cool, calm voice in answer. Erik's tone only served to make her more angry.

"Show yourself and address me like a man, damn you!" Anya demanded boldly.

"And what point would that serve?" Responded Erik, still unseen. "We can have a perfectly fine conversation from where I'm standing."

Anya stood in front of the mirror and glared. "You're really too frightened of a ballerina to step beyond the glass? You know, I am starting to rather regret last night. I thought I went to bed with a man, not a mouse," she sneered, and suddenly Erik was standing in front of her so close she nearly fell as she backed away.

"Say whatever it is you mean to say, and say it quick," snarled Erik. "I am in a foul mood and have no desire at all to play your games."

…Something was alarmingly different about the man in front of her. His tone of voice which had been so calm and controlled only moments before was now dangerous. And his eyes… normally she could see their gleam from so close, but not today.

"You've been using morphine!" She accused, stepping closer to have a better look at his eyes before Erik shoved her back so hard she fell to the ground.

"Among other things," he snarled without remorse. "And yet the pain of your blow is not quite quenched. I do hope you're satisfied."

Tears came to her eyes, and not from the dull pain of her tailbone striking the hard floor. She had known he would not take the news well… but never could Anya have expected to hurt him this much. The woman pulled herself to her feet stiffly, holding herself around the middle self consciously. "Well?" Snapped the man in front of her impatiently. "Are you going to speak or aren't you?"

"I… I don't want your money, Erik," she told him, taking the envelope off the bed and holding it out for him to take. The man made no move to take it.

"No? I had thought you would be thrilled about the sum, all things considering."

Anya glared at the man hard. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Only that I paid you what a whore for the elite would earn, and you are probably a good ten years older than most of the women who work those streets."

Erik's words stung so hard she could not find the words to respond. "Was there anything else, or only that pathetic little attempt to spare your dignity?"

"It… It probably means nothing to you now," Anya whispered, trembling in an attempt not to cry in front of him. "But I'm sorry. I never meant to deceive you, but I know I have. Whether you choose to believe it or not, it is a burden that will always weigh on my heart."

Anya closed her eyes tightly when Erik could only scoff in response. "I don't want your money. And I don't want to leave Paris yet… but if it will help alleviate whatever pain I have brought you, I will take the money and go to America on the next boat," she told him quietly.

"Wonderful!" Exclaimed Erik in delight, and tears finally fell from Anya's eyes. "Make sure and book your ticket soon, I'm certain the ships will all be full for the holiday," the man advised with a dark sort of cheerfulness in his voice, and Anya nodded.

"I will."

"No longer a virgin and now completely rid of the largest thorn in my side in four years! I would say this calls for a feast and a bottle of wine. Good day, Madame," Erik chimed, vanishing through the mirror and leaving Anya alone in her misery.

He was not himself, she tried to convince herself. The Erik she knew was a kind, thoughtful, wonderful man. If he was a little eccentric it was from years of solitude and loneliness. And really, who didn't have their eccentricities? This man was a monster. He was malicious, he derived pleasure from watching others suffer. This horrible human being had murdered God only knew how many people in Persia, brought down a chandelier onto a packed theatre, had nearly raped her.

No. This was not the man she love… Dear God. Why had that thought come to her head? To love Erik… there was no reason not to, except for the hole in her heart left by fifteen years of desperately clinging to a dying romance. But why could Erik not be the one to fill that hole? He was incredibly intelligent, well spoken, artistic… clearly not without his faults however, Anya frowned. Could she love a man with such horrible, frightening vices? There had been no remorse in him at all when he pushed her. Again and again she told herself, that was not her Erik. Erik's vices brought about that monster, but it was not him.

Was it possible she was in love with Erik? She hardly knew anything about him! He was French, and had lived in Persia for many years. She thought she recalled something about gypsies as well. He was a magician, as well as a musician, and was very good at both his arts. And he had built the Opera, she remembered that. Was that really enough to love a man by?

Then again, does one really fall in love with a person's history? Surely not! Anya had been quite in love with her husband when they married, but they were only children! Neither of them had any history to speak of by then, yet they had been deliriously in love. No, it was the man himself she loved, Anya realized. A man who loathed her husband solely on her behalf. A man who had viewed her as enough to dull the pain of everyday living. A man who's face she had not seen, and perhaps would never see, but a man so wonderful she did not need for him to be handsome to love him.

What had she done? When she had the chance to love Erik she had been too foolish, too ignorant to admit her care for him was more than a simple fondness. And now… Now Erik was mad as a hatter! There was morphine and God only knew what else in his veins causing him to behave like an animal. Would he even be able to listen to her pleas for forgiveness, her promises that she was wrong? Or would he think she was mocking him?

Anya decided it was a risk worth taking. Pulling on her warmest coat, she ventured out of her room and down the long way into the cellars, calling for Erik the entire way and praying silently he would not abandon her out of anger if she got lost.

"Erik? Erik I need to speak with you again. Please, it's very important…" She continued to call out to the man with no response until her throat was raw as she approached the edge of the enormous underground lake. How on earth she had found it, she would likely never know. But she was so close now! Surely if Erik had been simply ignoring her before he could not ignore her now.

"Erik!" She shouted, frustration mounting as she was met with no response. Suddenly a figure appeared in the mist hovering over the lake. In a moment Anya realized it was Erik rowing methodically over the water.

"YOU are the single most wretched woman on the planet!" Erik seethed, stepping out from the boat and stalking up to her angrily. "Why is it even after I've finally gotten rid of you you insist on tormenting me! Go on, buy your ticket to America and leave me-"

The man was silenced by a firm kiss, and was too startled by the gesture to respond. Anya's mouth softened against his, and Erik's breathing slowed as his anger became the less prominent thought in his mind.

"Would you please not insult me for just one moment so I can say what I mean to without changing my mind?" Anya asked, nearly pleading. Tensing his jaw, Erik nodded and gestured for her to continue with a wave. "Thank you. I hope against hope that you will believe what I say is true and that you do not think I am only tying to appease you. I swear on my life and all that is holy, every word I say is true. I love you, Erik. Or, I love you when you are you, not this… hideous beast you become in your madness. I do not love the man who strangled politicians in Mazenderan, nor the man who brought down a chandelier, nor the man who once wanted to rape me for no reason besides that he could. But I do love the man I bedded last night. The one who brought me bushels of flowers, who wished me luck before my debut even though he had not spoken to me in weeks. The man I used to spill my heart out to every night while I cleaned the stage rather than dance upon it. I even love the man who stupidly got me the leading role by extortion. The things you do out of the goodness of your heart can be wonderful Erik, even when they're misguided. And I love you for them."

Erik fought hard not to shout at her, not to yell and threaten. His mind was still in a fog but the sincerity in her voice and words was unmistakable. "… What about your husband? I thought you could not love me while you still loved him."

"Well… I suppose I was wrong," Anya admitted quietly. "I know my love for him is… foolish. Childish even. A grown woman should know better than to love a pig… but for half of my life he was my pig. I never thought I deserved any better. I still don't deserve better. But for the first time in my life I want something better. You treat me like a queen, and as selfish as it is I adore it. I believe you left before I was able to tell you how wonderful last night was…" She ventured, and Erik's eyes glued themselves to the sand. "It was only the second time I've ever felt like that. And the first time I ever felt like that because of the man I was with and not because of alcohol."

"I thought it was rather sloppy…"

Anya nodded. "It was, but Erik, it always is for a while. It is like any other art. I certainly stumbled when I first learned to dance, and I'm sure you were not born a virtuoso at the organ. But I know you are a fast learner. Goodness, your learning curve just for kissing is likely what let me release even before you did," she smiled. "Nobody has ever kissed me like that before, and then learned so well where to return. It was breathtaking."

Anger quelled by her praise, Erik gestured to the boat with a sigh of resignation. "Come inside. I have a lot to think about; there's no sense in waiting out here in the cold while I do so."

With a small smile, Anya climbed into the little boat and allowed Erik to row them across the lake. The mist was so thick they were nearly drenched by the time they made it across to the other side, and Anya began to shiver. "Do you mind if I take a bath while you're… thinking?" She had been about to say clearing his head, but she didn't dare anger him while they were still so near the water and while there was more than blood in his veins.

"Help yourself. Would you like a glass of wine to take with you? I opened a bottle but I don't anticipate finishing it."

"I would like that, yes," she smiled politely, uplifted by his change in demeanor. He was quieter and more restrained than usual, but it was a start. Erik vanished into the kitchen and brought out a large glass of red wine, which she accepted with thanks before slipping off into the Loise-Phillipe bedroom to bathe.

Erik lit a fire in the fireplace and sat in the chair nearest the hearth, removing his mask and rubbing his face with both his hands and deciding to wait for the feeling to return to limbs and for the fog to lift from his head before making any decisions about her honesty and what ought to be done from there.

When Anya emerged from the bedroom nearly an hour and a half later, Erik was masked again and sleeping heavily in the same chair he had sat in to warm himself. Quietly Anya moved back into the bedroom to pull one of the blankets off of the bed. Carefully she sat in Erik's lap, pausing nervously when he adjusted his position to better accommodate her in his sleep. Wrapping the blanket around them both, she leaned her head against his chest and was quickly lulled to sleep by his strong heart beat and steady breathes. She had inkling nor care of the time; between sex and arguing, they had exhausted themselves the night before, and between rising early and more fighting today, she indulged in the sound sleep she should have had with Erik the night before.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **Took one of the longest, most heartbreakingly unsuccessful exams of my college career today. After a long streak of As on tests all term, I'm not taking it very well. There are very few things more painful to a professional student than giving up hours and hours of your life to study for an exam and still wanting to cry after you hand it in. I apologize for not getting a chapter up last night (was up until 2 am studying for apparently no reason. Gotta love organic chemistry), so here's a nice long chapter to make up for it (and to keep me from having an anxiety attack).

* * *

Anya awoke with a stretch several hours after she fell asleep in Erik's lap, nuzzling his chest absently as she breathed him in. There was a sweet, smoky smell to him that she didn't remember from before, one she decidedly didn't like as much as his other scents. The smell reminded her of an old wooden chest she had as a girl, a faint mix of wood, must, and spices. It suited him, she thought with a small smile.

"Good afternoon," Erik greeted her, a tamed sort of curiosity in his voice as he watched her move so comfortably against him.

The woman closed her eyes again lazily. "It's afternoon already?"

"It was almost ten when you arrived down here, and you've been asleep at least three or four hours."

"And I could sleep for another three or four more. It's been a hard few days," she yawned, stretching again and looking up at him.

Erik nodded in answer. "It has been. I fell asleep a few hours myself, which is quite unlike me," he admitted, grateful he had thought to return his mask to his face before he fell asleep. It would not have been a good afternoon if she had waltzed out of the bath and seen him bare faced.

"How are you feeling?" Anya ventured quietly, and Erik caught her meaning.

"Well my entire body aches, but except for the pins behind my eyes my head is clearer," he told her, and Anya frowned.

"It hurts that much?"

"Opium and its cousins are hard chemicals on the body. As sweet and wonderful as they are in the blood, they are tenfold worse when they leave."

"That's the smell!" Anya exclaimed suddenly. "Your shirt smells like opium! I knew it smelled familiar; my grandfather used to smoke it when I was a girl."

"Splendid. Now every time we go to bed you shall be thinking of your grandfather," Erik intoned sarcastically, but not cruelly.

"Not if you stop smoking it I won't," she pointed out before realizing exactly what he had said. "Does that mean you've forgiven me?"

Erik sighed some. "Ask me that again when every muscle in my body doesn't ache because of you."

Anya frowned. "All right," was all she could manage, and Erik immediately felt horrible for being so thoughtless with his words. "I saw all the dresses in the wardrobe. They were all so lovely I had trouble deciding," she ventured with a small smile.

"I'm glad you like them. Stand up and let me have a look at the one you picked."

The ballerina obeyed, moving off of Erik's lap and turning slowly to give him a look at the gray-green dress she had chosen, one that matched her eyes nearly exactly. Erik had been working from memory when he chose it, but clearly he had chosen well. "I'm surprised at how well it fits, considering I had to guess."

"You guessed well, it fits like a glove," she smiled. "And it's certainly one of the most luxurious fabrics I've ever worn! I can hardly believe how soft it is."

"I only buy the highest quality. They were expensive, but well worth it," he promised, and Anya frowned a little.

"You really shouldn't spend your money on me. That reminds me, I still have the francs you gave me for the boat-"

"Keep them. Even if you don't decide to use them now you will need them someday," Erik insisted.

"You don't want me to leave anymore?" She ventured quietly, not wanting to set him off again.

"You may leave whenever you wish," Erik conceded. "It was wrong of me to tell you to go. It is your life, do with it as you see fit."

Anya moved back into his lap. "And what if I see fit to give you back the money? I would feel horrible accepting such a sum, especially considering what you gave it to me for…"

"I make more money than I am sure I will ever need," he told her. "I know you consider yourself old, but I am ancient in comparison. I no longer have any need for such funds. I live well, and the rest of the money goes in a box that will likely be forgotten when I can finally sleep for eternity."

This made Anya frown deeply. "You say that as if you want to die."

"Some days I do, others I don't. It really depends. I've never been bold enough to do anything about the days I do, that ought to tell you something," Erik shrugged, and Anya's frown deepened.

"Certainly not that you are a coward if that is what you're implying. Suicide is the coward's way out," she insisted; if the two men she had loved in her life both committed suicide, she knew she would wind up committed into an asylum.

Erik only hummed in noncommittal response, clearly disagreeing with her at least on some level. Anya bit the insides of her cheeks, wanting to say something but unsure of what it was she could say. She decided to change the subject. "Well, I can't accept both the dresses and the money, and I would much rather have something to wear while I'm here than the money, so you'll take it whether you like it or not."

The man chuckled some. "Oh will I?"

"You will. I will simply sneak it back in with your pay the next time Madame Giry delivers your envelope," she grinned, and Erik looked startled.

"Who told you –"

"I went digging around the theatre, remember? It was one of the bits and pieces I picked up," she grinned broadly. "You're such a strange man, Erik, but incredibly fascinating. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed playing detective until I met you. Perhaps I'm in the wrong career," she teased, laughing and kissing him soundly when Erik rolled his eyes.

To her pleasant surprise, Erik kissed her back. She had thought he might still be too upset with her to allow her that small sign of affection. Confidence inspired, she kissed him again, a little more deeply. Erik caught on quickly to where she was going.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," he told her quietly, and Anya frowned.

"Why not? I'm sure you'll be even better this time," she promised, moving to kiss him again until he pulled away.

"For one thing you have a performance tonight,"

"Not until seven. You said yourself it was afternoon-"

"For another thing I don't… desire a repeat of last night," he finally admitted. "I couldn't handle it just yet. I don't suppose I would ever handle it very well…"

Anya furrowed her brow and kissed him before speaking quietly. "I am so sorry to have made you go through it at all. I am a foolish, stupid woman. But you must write it off as that and nothing more. I do love you, Erik. Do you honestly think me the type of woman who would say such a thing just to appease you?"

Erik considered this for a moment. "Well no," he admitted, figuring that if she were brave enough to say she didn't love him in the first place she was likely brave enough to stick to her story if it were true.

"Good, because I'm not. I care about you deeply and I want to make you happy, but I would never lie to you to make you happy. It is a cruel thing to do."

"And you are certainly not cruel," Erik conceded, and Anya kissed him again.

"Take me to bed, then," she whispered. "I want to spend as much time with you as possible before you disappear on me again for God knows how long this time."

"If all went according to plan last night it shouldn't be more than a few days before you see me again, at the most," Erik pointed out as Anya kissed him again.

"Days seem like ages. More bearable than weeks, certainly, but still lonely without my only and dearest friend and love," she told him, and Erik knew he had no choice but to indulge them both. He certainly wanted her in spite of how deeply she had hurt him the night before. Now that he knew what she felt like, his body craved her as strongly as it craved morphine when she had hurt him. She was without a doubt growing into an addiction all her own, but Erik certainly was not complaining.

When Anya kissed him again Erik returned the gesture, and with a happy sigh Anya placed her arms around his neck while they kissed. How he adored this woman, he allowed himself to think for the first time since she had scorned him. Her lips were so full and sweet he could kiss them for hours and never grow bored. She was utterly fascinating with her large, innocent gray-green eyes coupled with her carefully refined sensuality. Anya was every bit a woman, and Erik found himself wondering how he ever thought a child like Christine could have satisfied him. Certainly she could physically gratify him, but the immense, full satisfaction he had felt after bedding Anya was surely no comparison.

Erik stood with Anya in his arms, lips still locked with hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist, letting out a soft moan when his already hardening manhood pressed against her. She had only ever been with her husband and Erik, but she knew her husband had been around average in that particular area. For all his leanness, Erik was surprisingly well endowed. Combined with his quick learning curve and immense desire to please, Anya was certain she would never be left wanting in bed again.

Her lover was far better able to control himself this time, and while he was unable to last quite as when he had already satisfied himself, Anya was thoroughly pleased with his handiwork. Her whole body quivered with delight when he groaned in release, and while her own release didn't strike her as hard as it did the night before her whole body relaxed instantly as a sweet wave of pleasure washed over her. Erik's care not to crush her was momentarily forgotten as he collapsed over her, but he was so slight Anya didn't mind. Quietly she smiled under his shoulder, kissing there softly and holding him while he regained his strength.

Anya curled against Erik's side when he finally moved off her, closing her eyes lazily as she held him until he spoke.

"Tell me something about you I don't know," he asked suddenly, looking down at her with as much content in his eyes as she felt.

Climbing on top of him, Anya folded her arms under her chin to look up at him. "That's going to be hard, considering all the digging you've already done on me," she pointed out, and Erik chuckled some.

"I'm certain there's plenty I don't know. If you could change something about yourself, what would it be?" He asked to prompt her, and Anya considered carefully.

"Physically or something else?"

"Either. Both, even."

"Well. I suppose I could stand to lose a few pounds –"

Erik interrupted her before she could continue. "Surely you jest! You can't possibly weigh more than a few pounds as it is!"

Anya shrugged gently. "Ballet is all about lines and angles. The thinner I am the more beautiful lines I can make when I dance."

"There is nothing beautiful about a skeleton."

"Look who's talking! I can see each and every one of your ribs," she pointed out, running a finger down his ribcage to demonstrate.

"Yes, but you don't hear me speaking about losing even more weight."

"You're plenty allowed to disagree with what I would change; that's why their my desires and not yours," she said simply, and Erik frowned while she continued. "I suppose the other thing would be my great big mouth. It gets me into trouble more often than I would like. Even before I met you I was saying things without thinking."

"Like what?"

Anya bit her lip some. "Like when I confronted my sister about Luka at his funeral. I caused quite a scene."

"As well you should have, it deserved quite a scene," Erik promised, and Anya smiled as she kissed is chest.

"And you? What would you change?"

"Well, for physicality I will go with the blaringly obvious. I would like a normal face. Even an ugly face would do, if normal is too much to ask for."

Anya frowned. "Now see, we're even. I wouldn't wish a normal face on you for the world," she said before realizing how awful that sounded. "Not that you don't deserve normalcy, or even excellence. But your face has surely shaped who you are more than anything else about you, even your genius. I love you, of course I don't wish you to change who you are."

Erik kissed her gently at that. "As oddly sweet as that is, I believe if you saw my face you would change your mind. I am more ugly than the gentle mind of a ballerina can imagine."

"Love, I watched my husband put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. Have you ever seen what a man looks like after he has done such a thing?"

"I have not, no," he admitted, most the murders death he had seen over the years having been caused by strangulation.

"It is more hideous than a living face could ever be, even at its worst. His entire face was destroyed by the force of the bullet, and the back of his head… I never imagined a bullet could do any more than cause a hole, but he was completely unrecognizable by the time the police arrived."

Erik frowned. "I am certain it was horrible, but I am also certain you were disgusted by it."

"Of course I was! I watched the face of my once handsome husband practically turn inside-out. But Erik, after that very little turns my stomach anymore. Nothing will ever compare to that horror, and I know that if I can live with that image burned into my brain I will certainly survive your face."

"I am not worried about you surviving it," Erik whispered. "I worry that you will not love it."

Anya kissed his misshapen lips gently. "A misplaced fear, Love. I love you not because of your face, or even your body. Though a certain part of it certainly does not hurt my love for you," she grinned some to him, and in spite of his unease Erik couldn't help but smirk proudly at the praise before his seriousness washed over him again.

"… If I let you remove my mask, do you promise not to scream? I cannot stand the sound of women screaming."

The ballerina frowned. "Of course I promise," she told him confidently, sitting up when Erik did and not bothering to cover herself. She was surprised at how comfortable she was with her nakedness around him, when last night she had felt so exposed during his anger. When Erik said nothing, Anya reached forward slowly and put her fingertips on the edge of the cool white mask. He grabbed her wrist so suddenly she gasped before relaxing.

"Wait," he urged, and she could already see the nerves and heartache in his eyes. "I love you. Please don't forget that I love you."

With a frown Anya moved to kiss him, and Erik let go of her wrist. "I love you too, Erik. I won't forget, you have my word," she promised. With that she peeled the mask away from Erik's face, and as they did when she first caught sight of Erik's naked form her eyes filled with tears and a hand moved to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

His face was wretched. There was no way about it. It was as though his maker had taken the leftover parts of every other man and stretched them thin across his bones. Every angle of his face was pronounced, the only missing angle being the complete and utter absence of a nose. Skin as thin and pale as parchment revealed networks of blue veins just under his flesh, which almost seemed to pulsate.

Erik immediately grew tense, but it was not until Anya sobbed that anger and betrayal were evident on his ruined face. "You bitch! You stupid, foolish whore!" He spat, "I told you I would be hideous, but still you had to see! Well, look then!" Erik demanded, grabbing her face with his hand and pulling her gaze to his face when she looked away with another sob.

"Stop it, you're hurting me!" She told him, daring to smack his wrist sharply in spite of his anger. He immediately let her go and moved to stand until she grabbed his arm. "You are so quick to anger for nothing!" she cried. "First last night when I saw you, and now…"

"Then you were only disturbed, now you are horrified!" He spat, snatching up his mask with the arm that was not restrained.

"You were right," she said simply, hoping he could understand the anger that was quickly overtaking him. "I changed my mind; I do wish you had a more normal face. But Erik… only because of how it pains you. I was selfish to say I would never want that for you, even if it has shaped you into who you are. In your face… I see more hurt than ugliness," she told him quietly, wiping at her eyes and keeping her hand on his arm even as she moved her eyes to the bed. "I can't even imagine… Erik I'm so sorry I ever added to the pain in your life for even one moment," Anya whispered before letting him go and covering her face with both hands to hide her tears.

Erik gaped, utterly stunned by her response. Surely she was just trying to avoid angering him! But no… he had tried to leave and she had stopped him. And now she was crying. Were they truly tears for him? Erik reached out carefully pulled her chin up to inspect her carefully. Anya pulled her hands away from her face and looked at him through tear filled eyes… but there was no fear on her face. Pain and sorrow, yes. Maybe even a little unease and disgust. But she looked him in the eye and made no move to turn away. To test her resolve Erik sat back on the bed and moved to kiss the tears from her face. This only renewed their flow as she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly while she cried.

"My poor, sweet Erik. I'm so sorry. You deserve so much more," she whispered, and Erik held her as tight as tears came to his eyes now. Unlike Anya's they were tears of happiness.

"Anya, I have more than I deserve in my arms at this very moment," Erik swore, and Anya took a deep, shaking breath as her tears finally began to subside. She held him for ages, simply breathing him in until her attention was drawn to several of the scars that littered his chest and arms. She sat back, brushing her hand against one of them gently.

"Where did you get this one?" She asked once her breath had steadied. Erik wondered at the way she was able to look up at his unmasked face without wincing or wretching.

"A knife fight with a band of would-be thieves. I managed to scare them off, but one of them got in a good slice before he left," Erik explained, and Anya's brow furrowed quietly.

"And this one?" She pressed, touching a rougher scar on his side, just under his ribs.

"My first, which is why it's so ugly. I didn't learn how to properly take care of a wound for five or six years after this one," Erik explained.

"What happened?"

Erik was quiet for a moment before deciding it was safe to answer. "My mother was a damned fool and left my dog outside in the garden once when I was a boy. A group of boys from the village took it as an opportunity to torment us by attacking the dog. I went out to save her, but one of them had a knife."

Anya frowned deeply. "How old were you?"

"Eight, or thereabouts," he confessed, and Anya gasped.

"Only eight? How horrible! Your mother didn't call a doctor for you?" She asked, wondering what sort of woman would let her son scar so.

"Her lover at the time was a physician, he bandaged me. It's so ugly because I ran away from home the next morning with no knowledge of how to care for it. I kept it as clean as I could, but that was it. It never got infected but did not sit still enough to properly heal."

Anya sighed sadly as she turned to lean against his chest, comforted when Erik's arms moved around her. She stroked one of the scars on his forearm absently.

"That one is my own fault," he said with a bit of a smile. "An accident though, I promise."

She looked up at him with those large, curious eyes and Erik elaborated. "I jumped from a cliff into the water. It was much shallower than I anticipated it would be. I'm lucky I didn't break my neck, in hindsight."

"I should say so!" Anya gasped. "What possessed you to jump before looking?"

"Youth. Stupidity. Take your pick, or call it a combination of the two," he smiled. "I was alone a lot as a boy, especially after I left the Gypsies. I had to do something to entertain myself."

Anya couldn't help but chuckle. "Well. I'm glad they're not all horror stories," she admitted, kissing the scar on his arm. "If I take another nap will you wake me when it's five? I want to be back in plenty of time for the performance."

"I certainly will," Erik promised as Anya settled cozily into his chest. He rested his chin upon her head, breathing in the clean, floral smell of her hair as her chest began to rise and fall more steadily against his. How had he gotten so lucky he wondered, admiring the shallow curve of her bare breasts and the tautness of her belly before pulling the blankets up around them to keep her warm. She could have any man in Paris if she wanted, but she had chosen him. Perhaps karma was finally catching up with him.

The distant chime of the bell tolling seven woke Erik with a start, who had not realized he had fallen asleep. The sound had not even been loud enough to wake Anya, but his ears were much more adept than hers.

"Anya! Anya wake up! It's seven!" He demanded, patting her shoulders to rouse her and moving out from behind her quickly.

"What?" She yawned, stretching some. "It can't be seven yet, I would have slept all day-"

"With the except of sex and talking, we have," Erik told her hastily, pulling on his clothes rapidly. Anya suddenly knew he was being quite serious, and was wide awake in an instant.

"Dear God! The show is at seven! Why didn't you wake me at five?" she demanded, bolding from the bed and slipping into her dress without bothering to tie it. "It'll take us at least twenty minutes to reach the theatre, and I still have to change!"

"I fell asleep too! I was so comfortable I didn't even notice," Erik tried to justify as Anya rushed past him out of the room, hopping on one foot as she pulled on a shoe.

"Well, hurry up!" she told him, waiting impatiently as he opened the hole in the wall to lead them back out to the lake.

Twenty five minutes later, the pair stepped through the two-way mirror to the sound of the managers pounding on the door. "Madame Chekov! The curtain waits! People will begin demanding refunds!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I've been terribly ill all day," she shouted to the door, hastily doing her make-up for the character as Erik held out her dress for her to step into and tied her up neatly.

"Not too ill to perform I hope! If this is about what happened last night-"

"Please, Messieurs, just a moment, it's terribly hard to change in a hurry while holding a conversation!" She exclaimed, exasperated as she turned to face her masked lover, kissing him quickly but sincerely and whispering. "Will you be watching tonight?"

"Of course."

Anya smiled and pecked his lips gently. "Good. Be safe. I love you," she promised before pushing him towards the mirror so she could open the door without him being seen.

"I love you too," he promised, obediently moving through the mirror just as Anya opened the door for the managers, rushing out past them towards the stage.

In spite of the day nearly resulting in disaster, Anya would not have traded it for the world.


	14. Chapter 14

Box five without a doubt offered the best view in the entire theatre. It was the perfect place to see and not be seen, and hear and not be heard.

Erik did not expect a repeat performance by the managers, but came prepared in case the duo was truly as thick as he sometimes suspected they might be; one of the major benefits of Box Five was the hollow pillar Erik had built so long ago which only he knew how to work. It would allow for a quick, easy exit in case of an emergency.

When the sound of a man's footsteps came down the normally secluded hallway, Erik tensed; normally the only person who dared to walk by box five was Madame Giry, whose aging matronly gait Erik had memorized by now. As the footsteps slowed by the door of the box, Erik rushed to the shadows nearest the pillar he could use for an escape, cursing his luck. The ballet had not even reached intermission and already he may have to flee.

When Erik caught sight of the man who stepped inside, his eyes immediately rolled to the back of his head. He remained in place as Nadir Kahn stepped to the balcony, peering over with a curiously furrowed brow as if looking for something.

"Do you really think I vanish over railings during performances?" Erik demanded, appearing behind his old friend as if from nowhere.

The Persian turned, startled. "Really Erik, is that entirely necessary?"

"After what happened last night, it most certainly is."

Nadir frowned. "Yes, I heard about that. I also heard that your friend went missing for most of the day, and that the curtain only just rose half an hour ago. It should be nearly intermission."

"You hear an awful lot for a man with atrocious French," Erik remarked, moving back to his seat and allowing the man to sit next to him.

"It's no small wonder you pick these seats. The stage looks wonderful from here," Nadir remarked absently.

"What is it you want, Daroga?" Erik demanded, turning to the man. "If you know what happened last night you know nobody was harmed. And Anya is performing beautifully, obviously she isn't harmed."

"Why was she so late then, Erik?"

Erik smirked some under his mask, as more light hearted gesture than the morbidly entertained looked Nadir has seen on him before. "We were so exhausted we slept until curtain."

"You expect me to buy that she somehow wound up in your house, and that she somehow overslept her performance?"

"Not somehow, quite deliberately. It was a stressful series of events, but it ended quite remarkably."

"…What did you do to that poor girl, Erik?" Nadir demanded suddenly, rising from his chair in anger.

Erik simply laughed, more sanity in his voice than Nadir expected. "Only as much as she did to me! We made love last night, Daroga! Don't give me that look, I quite sympathize with you. I would hardly believe it myself if so much hadn't happened afterwards."

"Such as?"

"When I first confessed my love, she said she could not love me back. I was so furious with her I could hardly see straight. I dread to think what I might have done if I had not left. Naturally I became wholly depressed, and I took enough medicine to dull my pain and drown out my ills, at least a little. I left her a note and several hundred francs to pay her for her services. That certainly seemed to jolt her to awareness, because after I told her I wanted her to take the money and leave the country she came and found me. I'm not quite sure how she managed to find the lake this time but she did, and I am impossibly glad for it. She does love me! She even loved me when she saw my face, Daroga."

The Daroga raised his brow at the man. "You really think she just happened to change her mind about loving you? You are more the type to threaten someone into submission-"

"I didn't, Daroga, I swear it. I tried to send her away! You can ask her yourself! I never wanted to heard from her ever again, but she came to me and confessed her love. I am going to see her after the performance, you're welcome to come with me. So long as you promise not to stay too long, I do plan on treating her to dinner and wine."

Nadir sat again, watching the woman onstage dance wondrously. Had such a lovely woman truly been intimate with Erik? She certainly didn't seem upset at all. He suspected a woman who had been raped would be too upset and sore to move so beautifully. Anya moved as if there were truly Giselle, as if there were no audience at all, only a stage. Nadir decided he would see for himself if Erik was being honest.

A few minutes before the performance was over, Erik stood to leave. "If you still want to see for yourself, she's staying in the dressing room Christine used to occupy. A complete accident, I assure you," Erik added, knowing what Erik would think. "It's simply the nicest of the rooms reserved for top performers."

Nadir nodded and watched Erik vanish into a pillar before leaving the box himself and making his way down to the dressing room. Anya smiled and accepted flowers from admirers politely, and the woman grinned broadly when she spotted the dark man with jade eyes. "Monsieur Khan! I didn't know you were coming!" She exclaimed, moving to embrace the man with the arm that was not laden with flowers. The man chuckled fondly at the gesture.

"I was visiting an old friend of mine, and I thought I would stop by and see how you were feeling, considering your condition the last time I saw you. If you're too busy I'd be happy to come back?"

Anya waved the man off and pulled him inside. "Please, come in! It's been too long," she smiled before turning back to her well-wishers. "Monsieur Khan is a very good friend of mine. I haven't seen him since he found me wandering aimlessly in the cellars a few weeks back," Anya told them, hoping to stop any rumors of her sexual relations with the man before they began. "I have many things I would like to speak with him on, but it's been wonderful meeting all of you," she promise politely before closing the door and locking it with an exhausted sigh.

Nadir chuckled. "I would guess that you are as talented an actress as you are a dancer."

"I certainly hope they bought it. I can hardly stand entertaining patrons, but they do pay my salary after all. Really though Monsieur Khan, how have you been? I never did thank you for finding me that night."

"No thanks is necessary, Madame. Really it was Erik who did all the finding, if anything I slowed him down," Nadir promised. "Speaking of Erik, I've been to see him tonight."

The ballerina frowned some as she unpinned her hair in the mirror. "He wasn't at the performance, then?"

"Oh no, he certainly was. I joined him in box five, he was there until right before curtain. I suppose he leaves early to avoid the crowds," the Daroga informed her, watching the private, honest smile creep onto her face. "He told me a little of what happened last night."

Anya's eyes widened and she flushed deeply. "He didn't! Oh, what is it about men? Were you all sleeping when your etiquette teachers taught you to never kiss and tell?" She demanded, sitting in the wooden chair by the vanity to brush out her hair while the Daroga sat on the divan with a stunned look.

"You mustn't blame Erik. He was raised differently than the rest of the world… So it's true then?"

The woman flushed deeper. "Well, since he's already told you… yes."

The Persian man's brow furrowed, and Anya could tell he was having a hard time stomaching this thought. She frowned some. "I suppose you expect me to justify it?"

"…I must admit I am quite curious."

"Well, I am in love. I didn't realize it last night but it was as true then as it is now. But Erik is a singularly remarkable man. In a lot of ways. But does anyone really have a reason why they're in love?" Anya pointed out. "Were you ever in love, Nadir?"

"Yes. I was married long time ago," Nadir admitted.

"Why did you love your wife?" Anya asked, and Nadir's brow furrowed again.

"Many reasons. She was a stunning beauty for one. Her laugh was contagious. She had a big heart. The littlest things used to make her weep at their beauty…" The man reminisced with a certain sadness in his voice.

"Erik is beautiful in his own way, Nadir," Anya told him. "He is so remarkably intelligent and passionate. He's not… like any other man I've met. He's seen so many horrible things, but has such a love for beauty even still. I suppose he's a little jaded, but it hasn't broken him. If anything it's made him… better in ways. I've never seen anything false about him at all. I can't say that about any other person I've ever met."

Nadir nodded. "Well then. I suppose congratulations are in order."

Anya smiled gently. "Thank you. It was a difficult evening, but it got progressively better through the day. I was actually hoping he would come by…"

"He plans to. I wouldn't be surprised if he were eavesdropping on us right now."

"You know me too well Daroga," Erik announced, appearing suddenly appearing in the room by the mirror. Anya folded her arms under her breasts.

"I am really going to have to teach you a few things about manners! I cannot believe you told Monsieur Khan we had sex!"

"Ah, I believe I better be going," Nadir said awkwardly, moving towards the door.

"Oh Nadir, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Anya frowned deeply, but Nadir waved her off.

"It's quite all right, you two have things to do," Nadir dismissed. "Anya, it's been a pleasure. Erik, congratulations on your marvelous find." With that Nadir slipped out of the room, and Erik chuckled some.

Anya folded he arms again. "I hope you're quite satisfied," she demanded, half teasing.

"Not yet but I'm sure I will be before the evening is over," Erik teased right back, causing Anya to blush again.

"You are horrible," she informed him, standing to kiss him soundly. Anya hummed happily on his mouth when he wrapped his arms around her and returned her kiss. "You really shouldn't have told Nadir we're having sex, you know. That's a horribly private matter, and it makes me look a little easy."

"I'm sorry, Love," Erik told her with a kiss. "I couldn't help it. He was inquiring after you and I had to explain. Let me make it up to you," he offered with another kiss, and Anya smiled.

"How do you expect to do that?"

"Come down and have dinner with me. You haven't eaten all day."

The ballerina grinned. "You want to cook for me? That sounds wonderful, Erik. Let me change and we can go right down," she promised with a peck before turning away from him. Erik grabbed her arm and tugged her back into his arms. Anya smiled broadly when Erik kissed her deeply. "You're in a mood, aren't you?"

"I heard all those wonderful things you said about me," he confessed, kissing her again as Anya wrapped her arms around his neck.

"They were all true you know," Anya promised, and Erik kissed her again, and before long Anya was stumbling backwards towards the little bed as Erik urged her back. The ballerina found herself remarkably aroused by his forwardness, this being the first time he had initiated anything close to intimacy rather than merely nervously agreeing to it. Nearly as soon as Anya had reclined Erik's kisses moved down to the place on her neck that made her toes curl and her fingers grasp at his back in longing.

"I like this side of you," Anya breathed as his lips brushed across the top of her costume and his hands slid indulgently up her legs, gasping against his mouth when Erik kissed her again and squeezed her thigh.

"You are perfection," Erik breathed in turn as Anya's leg slid up his anxiously. Her hands moved down to his trousers and began to fuss with his belt. Erik moved off her long enough to removed his slacks while Anya sat up and pulled off her costume, not even bothering with her stockings in her eagerness. Erik moved back over her and kissed at her breasts while she grasped at his hair. Anya's pleasure was back-arching, causing her to moan and buck and her nails to dig into his back. When finally she released she had to bury her face in his neck to stifle her yelps and gasps of delight. Erik followed soon after her with a long groan, collapsing over her in exhaustion.

Anya breathed heavily, holding her lover tightly against her. "You're getting very, very good," Anya told him quietly, smiling into his neck and wrapping her legs around him as if intent never to let him go.

"I have a remarkable teacher," Erik praised, kissing her neck lazily. If this was a dream, he hoped to never wake. "You must be starving, Love. You haven't eaten at all."

"Neither have you," Anya pointed out. "We could go out to eat, if you're terribly hungry."

Erik shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not the best idea. I can make something quick and spoil you rotten another night," Erik offered, and Anya frowned a little before nodding.

A knock came at the door, followed by a woman's voice that made Erik's heart sink to the pit of his stomach. "Madame Chekov? Are you in?"

Anya frowned to him. "What's wrong, I locked-" the door creaked open before Anya could even finish her sentence, and with a startled yelp she moved to cover she and her lover while Erik hid his masked face in his lover's neck, hoping past hope that whoever had walked in would walk immediately out before realizing the nature of Anya's lover.

The woman at the door yelped and immediately covered her eyes. "God! Oh God, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me-"

"Get out!" Anya demanded, pointing towards the door and moving out of bed once the woman had left to bolt the door tight. "I forgot to lock it after Nadir!" She bemoaned, every inch of her body bright red with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry!"

Erik sat up in bed, looking quite more distracted than he was embarrassed. This caused Anya to frown deeply. "You're worried they recognized you?"

"Well, yes," he said, but Anya could tell that was not his only concern. A sickening thought dawned on her.

"… You knew her, didn't you?"

"I… Yes. That was Christine Daae."


	15. Chapter 15

"Christine Daae?" Anya demanded. "THAT was Christine Daae?"

"It was," Erik told his lover quietly, and Anya horribly exposed. A few moments before she had been perfectly comfortable with her nakedness, but now she felt the urge to cover herself as quickly as possible. Moving to her wardrobe she pulled out an under dress to conceal her body.

"What on earth was Christine Daae doing in my dressing room?"

"This used to be her room."

"She came asking for _me_, Erik. Why would she come asking for me?"

"I don't know any more than you do, Anya. It's not as if I told her about us. I was with you all day."

Anya bit the inside of her cheeks. There was no reason to feel this overwhelmingly jealous. She hated feeling this way, especially considering they had become intimate only the previous night… But she simply could not shake her jealousy. Erik had kidnapped the girl. He had gone through such incredible lengths to try and force her to love him… Anya had slept with him and when she said she didn't love him he had tried to ship her off to the Americas! Sickening thoughts kept flooding her mind. Had Erik slept with her? He had claimed Anya was his first, but was she really? Did he still love the woman?

His awkward quiet certainly wasn't helping to ease her discomfort. "I think you had better go," Anya told him, and Erik seemed startled out of his reverie.

"What? You're not coming?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea right now," she told him simply, moving to pull on a dress and her shoes.

"But you haven't eaten all day," Erik said, sounding concerned. "At least come and eat something."

"I'll grab a croissant or something while I'm out," She promised, though if she was hungry before she certainly wasn't now.

Erik frowned deeply. "Where are you going?"

"Oh, now you're the jealous one are you?" Anya snapped more cruelly than she had meant, and Erik glared at her.

"It's an innocent question, it's nearly ten."

"I'm going for a walk to clear my head," she explained, pulling on her coat to fend off the slight chill. It couldn't have been any less than forty degrees out which would have required no coat at all for her in Russia, but nearly a year in France had changed her tolerance to the cold considerably.

"You're upset with me," Erik said more to himself than to her, and Anya held her head.

"No, Erik. I'm just… frustrated, is all. I didn't expect I would ever have to meet her, let alone that she would prance in looking for me when I'm at my most vulnerable," she sighed, moving to peck her lover. "I'll sort it out, I just need to be alone for a bit to do it. We'll still have dinner tomorrow like we planned," she promised and Erik nodded some, comforted a little but not completely. Anya left him alone in the dressing room to change and walked out of the theatre onto the streets of Paris.

Paris was so lovely at night, she reflected quietly. It had been a long time since she had seen it in the faint yellow glow of the lamps like this. Certainly not since before she had been hired at the Opera as a cleaning lady. She was so absorbed in her admiration of the city that she would have walked directly into a young couple walking towards her had they not politely stepped out of her way.

"I'm terribly sorry!" She told the pair hastily. "It's just such a lovely night I suppose I got lost in my thoughts," Anya explained, and the man smiled pleasantly.

"It's quite alright, Madame. We all have those moments," he promised, while the woman looked at her strangely.

"…You're Anya Chekov! Oh my, how embarrassing!" The woman exclaimed, and Anya immediately recognized the voice of the woman who had come into her room not long after Erik's lovemaking.

Anya had left the theatre to avoid Erik, and had run directly into someone even worse. She turned several shades of red as the man cleared his throat awkwardly; clearly Christine had told her friend what had happened. "Ah, yes, I am," Anya told them, curtsying politely in an attempt to change the subject.

Christine leapt at the chance to ease the tension and curtsied back. "Christine de Changy, and my husband Raoul. We were at your performance tonight. My husband got caught up with the managers or we would have been by sooner," she promised, and Anya waved her off hastily.

"It's in the past. It's Lady de Changy, I take it?"

Christine smiled. "Yes, my husband is the Vicomte de Changy. But really, Christine is fine."

"Nearly five years now and still she finds the title awkward," Raoul told Anya with a loving smile to his wife.

"Christine it is then. Might I ask why you wanted to see me?" Anya ventured, not quite certain she wanted to know the answer.

"We simply wanted to congratulate you on your performance," Christine told her pleasantly, though Anya could tell there was something more. "I'm afraid my husband is going out of town on business tomorrow, but perhaps I could take you to lunch? I used to perform at the Garnier back when it was an opera house, I would very much like to hear about everything that's happened over the years," Christine explained, and though Anya dreaded saying yes she dared not rouse suspicion by declining.

"It would be an honor," she smiled, though the gesture did not meet her eyes. Christine did not seem to notice.

"Wonderful! I can meet you at the theatre at noon?"

"That would be fine, yes."

"I look forward to it," Christine smiled pleasantly before looking up to her husband. "I wish I could stay longer but I'm afraid I've already talked my husband into staying out too late. He leaves at dawn but I insisted on a walk before bed."

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Madame Chekov," Raoul offered, and Anya curtsied.

"And you, Vicomte," Anya promised, quickly resuming her walk past the pair and dreading the following day.

True to her word, Christine was waiting just outside the theatre at noon exactly when Anya stepped outside to meet her. The woman had a strange look on her face as she inspected the horseshoe on the door of theatre. Anya put on her best face and touched the woman gently on the shoulder. "Interesting legend, isn't it?" She asked as the woman started visibly before breathing a small sigh of relief upon seeing it was Anya.

"…Yes. Yes, it really is," Christine said, more to herself than to Anya, causing the older of the two to frown. Suddenly Christine seemed to snap out of her reflection and smiled to Anya. "Well, where shall we lunch? It's been years since I've been back in Paris, I'm rather excited to try every food I've been missing."

"There's a bistro that opened just before I arrived here. I had lunch there often, it was wonderful and very well priced," Anya suggested, and Christine smiled broadly; although she now had more money than she knew what to do with, she still preferred more modest fare. They walked and spoke shallowly about the weather and the beauty of Paris until they reached the quiet little bistro. Christine made a point that they should be seated as secluded as possible, something which unnerved Anya greatly.

"Have you really been away from Paris so long?" Anya inquired, and Christine nodded.

"Yes. My husband I eloped, you see. His family never really cared for me… I am well below his status, and there was a horrible rumor going on for a time that Raoul had killed his own brother in a fight for my affections. It certainly isn't true," she added quickly. "Raoul is my knight in shining armor but he would never harm so much as a fly unless I or the children were in physical danger."

"Oh, you have children!" Anya exclaimed with a certain amount of relief in her voice she could not hide. "How wonderful. I'm barren myself. I figure when I retire and teach my students will make proper substitutes," she added, hoping to distract the woman from the tone of her previous comment.

Christine smiled. "Two. The oldest is about to start in school, which is why we moved back from Sweden. The education here is far superior, especially in the arts. I am certain you would be a marvelous teacher, and a mother given the chance. Speaking of all that, how is Monsieur Chekov taking your newfound success?" Christine asked, carefully phrasing her words. Anya could tell the woman knew more than she was letting on.

"I'm afraid there is no current Monsieur Chekov," Anya admitted, flushing a little though she suspected Christine knew her intimacy was extramarital already. "He passed away just over a year ago."

Christine frowned some. "I'm truly sorry for your loss. But it seems you're… moving on? Forgive me if I pry too much, you needn't answer."

"It's quite all right," Anya said suddenly. "I'm not ashamed. I have met someone, and I am quite in love. He's actually suggested marriage, but I don't know that I'm ready for such a step just yet," Anya explained honestly.

"And… And how is Erik?" The woman asked with a quiet, shaking voice. Anya could have sworn there was a hint of tears in her eyes.

"I… I don't know what you're-" Anya tried to feign ignorance but was caught.

"You do! It is Erik!" Christine exclaimed more loudly than she had intended, covering her mouth with both her hands and taking a few deep breaths before speaking again. "I'm sorry. It's just… It's just that Erik and I have a history. And I had thought he was dead. There was an obituary in the paper and everything… One of the reasons I wanted to come back to Paris was because of him," Christine admitted quietly.

"If you thought he was dead why was he any sort of motivation?" Anya inquired, trying her best to keep her upset at bay.

"I… I promised I would bury him. And I wanted to give him back this." Christine reached for a thin gold chain around her neck, pulling out a small gold ring from the front of her dress. "Raoul would simply die if he knew I still had it. But I promised Erik-"

"I'll give it to him for you," Anya interrupted her, not wishing to hear another word and wishing even less for Erik to come face to face with this lovely woman again.

Christine looked startled but visibly relieved all at once. "Would you? Oh you would be such an angel if you did. I've been far too nervous to try and give it to him myself," she admitted. "Our history was sorted at best. And Erik is so unpredictable."

Anya nodded curtly. "That he is, among other things," she grumbled, and Christine frowned as she handed over the ring and returned the chain to her neck. "How did you know Erik was the one I…" Anya trailed off, terrified she would say something like that she recognized him in his nakedness, or worse. "

"A hunch," Christine admitted. "I overheard the chatter about how you were cast, and I knew it had to have been Erik. When I went to see you and saw you with a man who hid his face…" The younger woman shuddered at some long repressed memory.

"Christine, may I be frank with you a moment?" Anya asked, unable to control herself.

"Yes, yes of course! Please do be."

"I think… I have a very strong suspicion that Erik still harbors feelings for you. Potentially very strong ones. I'm afraid he may never love me as much as he loved you and that thought hurts my heart considerably," Anya admitted, choosing her words carefully while still being honest. "I would consider it a great personal favor if you would avoid the theatre when you can. I know it holds a considerable amount of significance to you and your husband, but Erik holds a considerable amount of significance to me and I cannot stand the thought of him loving anyone else."

Christine's eyes widened considerably. Anya certainly couldn't blame Erik for loving her; she was remarkably beautiful and full of girlish innocence. "Madame, I would never dream of stealing him from you!" Christine exclaimed. "Do you believe in soulmates, Madame? One love for every person?"

"I… No. I'm not sure that I do. But I know the principle."

"Well, I do. And I am quite certain that Raoul and I were made for each other. Erik… I thought I loved him for a brief time. But it was not the love he needed. I've only known you for a few hours but I know in my heart a woman like you is more of what he needs than I ever could be."

Anya bristled some at that; all this woman knew of her was that she was putting out before marriage. "What does that mean?"

Christine gaped. "Not what you think, I promise you! Just that you are so clearly more experienced with life than I am. I have had my troubles to be sure, but on the whole my life has been blessed with love and joy. I can tell just by looking at you that you have struggled in your life, and that it has made you a very strong woman. He needs strength, not… mindless obedience. He would never be happy with a house wife he could simply order around."

The ballerina chewed the inside of her cheeks. That much was true; she couldn't ever imagine Erik being satisfied with a little lady to mend his clothes and tidy his house.

"Do you love him? Really love him?" Christened asked suddenly, pulling Anya from her thoughts.

"Yes. Yes I do," she said. "And I'm surprised by it I can love again after my husband, especially so soon, but grateful at the same time. Erik is…. Wonderful."

"That is another reason you are more of what he needs than I ever could be," Christine told her quietly. "He needs to be loved. He needs love and joy in his life so desperately he will do countless dark deeds to try and get it. But if he doesn't have to fight for it, if someone will give it to him willingly… That woman I am certain is his soulmate, and a better woman than I am."

Anya opened her mouth as if to argue, but thought better of it; she might not believe in soulmats, but Christine did. Really she ought to take the young woman's remarks as a compliment.

Conversation finally moved to more mundane, easier to stomach topics when their food arrived, and they parted ways early in the afternoon with plans to meet again the following month. Anya wasn't certain she would keep the date, but there was no harm in letting the young woman think she had made a new friend.


	16. Chapter 16

Anya performed again beautifully that night, as she had the first two nights of the show. In spite of the stress her lunch with Christine had caused, the woman was no more or less talented a performer than she had been all her adult life. That was one thing she prided herself in that even her Russian peers had struggled with; for Anya, dance was as separate from reality as she could possibly be. The stress of the day simply was not with her when she danced. Changes in her body did affect her level of ability, as they had when she had been too full of longing during the final dress rehearsal. But Anya likened moments like that to pulling a muscle. They were far more physical than emotional in nature.

The minute Anya was off stage, her anxiety returned. She moved to her dressing room during intermission to lie down a moment, something she rarely did. Her body felt completely and totally alive, but her mind was too exhausted to simply wait in the wings for the ballet to begin again.

"Shall I wake you when they make the final call?" asked Erik, who had appeared in the room without Anya's noticing. Funny how she was becoming more and more used to his apparition from thin air, she mused.

"No, I'm all right," she promised. "I'd only wake up more tired than I already am."

"Long day?"

"Long and stressful," she admitted, resting the back of her forearm over her eyes.

"You're still upset with me then?" Erik pried, staying well away from the bed in case that were the case.

Anya shook her head a little. "I was never upset at you, per se. Just frustrated at the situation in general."

"Then you'll still join me for dinner tonight?"

"Damn! I'm so sorry Erik, it completely skipped my mind. I had a rather indulgent lunch today, I don't feel like I'll be hungry for a week," she explained with a frown, sitting up to look at him.

Erik's frown mimicked her own. "What inspired you to indulge so? I expected you would be half starved."

"Well, I never did eat yesterday, and someone else was paying-"

The man's entire posture seemed to change. "You have a beau!"

Anya gaped at the man. "I… what? Don't be ridiculous, Erik!"

"You never go out to eat with the ballerinas, and they certainly wouldn't treat you," he accused harshly.

"So naturally that must mean I let a man take me to lunch twelve hours after sleeping with you for the third time in two days," she spat back sarcastically. "How in God's name are you a musician and not a detective?"

"Don't play coy with me, woman! I demand to know who you were with!" Erik seethed, already plotting ten or fifteen ways to murder the man.

Anya bit the inside of her cheeks until they bled, fearful for his reaction. "…Christine de Changy. I ran into her and her husband last night on my walk, she insisted we lunch today. She wants to meet again next month, but I don't particularly want to."

Once again Erik's entire demeanor seemed to change. A knock came at the door and a male voice called the five minute mark until curtain. Anya stood and moved to the mirror to blot at her eyes with a handkerchief to keep from crying and ruining her makeup. After taking a steadying breath, Anya pulled the gold ring Christine had given her to pass on to Erik from a drawer and left it on the counter without looking at the man. "She intended to return this to you, and bury you. Something about an obituary… Anyway, she heard that I had been cast because of the Opera Ghost. She doesn't seem terribly bright, but she did manage to realize you weren't really dead after all."

With that, Anya left the room to take her place upon the stage, leaving Erik in stunned silence behind her. She danced flawlessly through the second act of the production, giving herself to some of her favorite choreography in the entire production. The second act of Giselle was truly a masterpiece. After dying of a broken heart at the end of the first act, Giselle is invited to join a group of female souls who lure men to their death after being jilted by men in life. Giselle not only refuses to join them, but protects the man who had betrayed her from their wrath. Anya had always found Giselle's forgiveness of her love touching. In all honesty, the role had played a major part in her decision to stand by her husband after he had cheated.

Anya accepted the praise of the audience and returned to the dressing room, chatting with patrons pleasantly before feigning exhaustion and retiring. It wasn't until she got inside her dressing room and locked the door that she realized how exhausted she was, physically now as well as mentally. The events of the past few days were clearly beginning to take a toll on her.

The ballerina wiped her face clean and removed her slippers before pulling out the countless pins in her hair moving to peel off her costume. Erik cleared his throat from behind the mirror before Anya could undress, as if to let her know he was there before becoming indecent.

"You can come in you know. It's not as if you haven't seen my naked," she remarked, moving behind a changing screen anyway and slipping gracefully out of her costume dress, hanging it up neatly. Erik stepped through the mirror, holding wine colored satin gown in his arms.

"I thought you might want to wear a nicer dress to dinner," he offered quietly as Anya pulled on an under dress before stepping out and frowning slightly.

"I thought…" Anya began but never finished, unsure of what to say to the man who had been so visibly shaken by the appearance of his former love.

"You thought I would forget about our dinner because of Christine," he said for her, and Anya nodded.

"Well… yes. That and I've already eaten."

Erik handed Anya the dress. "Yes, nine hours ago. Surely you can suffer through a little of my cooking," he remarked more harshly than he had intended.

"It's not that, Erik, it's just that I don't normally eat more than once or twice a day, I'm not used to-"

"Did you eat breakfast?" Erik asked, and Anya blinked.

"No, I didn't."

"Then this makes your second meal, quite within your range," Erik said frankly, as Anya moved behind the changing screen to slip into the gown. "But if there's another reason you would rather not join me, you're welcome to say it."

Anya stepped out from behind the screen again, turning her back to Erik and pulling her hair aside in a request for him to lace the back of the dress. "There isn't," she promised. "It's just… You seemed so… I don't know. Different, earlier. Confused even. I thought knowing she was back might have changed things between us. She returned the ring you gave her, for goodness sake. That is a very grand gesture."

"Grand, yes, but it does leave very little to be confused about," Erik pointed out quietly. "She is wearing someone else's ring now. No sense crying over spilled milk, as they say."

The woman tightened her jaw some. "Certainly. Simply go and pour another glass," she remarked coldly, moving to the vanity to brush out her sand colored waves.

"Anya-"

"It's fine, Erik, I understand. I have no right to be upset. You were not my first love, and I am not yours."

"But you are upset," Erik pointed out, frowning as he sat on the edge of the bed. "You're worried I'm only using you to replace her."

"Well of course I am!" Anya exclaimed suddenly, putting her brush down with more force than she had intended. "I knew you had asked her to marry you, but I didn't think you had gone so far as to give her a ring! And here I am, throwing myself at you like some commonplace whore. But I understand; why buy the cow when the milk is free?"

"I have already told you once that I would marry you in an instant!"

"That isn't the point, Erik!" She lamented, clutching at her hair in frustration.

"Then what is, Anya?"

"The point, Erik, is that I am a stupid, stupid woman who has absolutely no reason or right to hate that girl, who does. There are precious few people in the world that I can truly say I loathe, and she is on that list. I hardly know the poor girl! I know she's a Vicomtess, married to Viscomte, with two children the oldest barely school aged, who dislikes her title but loves her husband dearly. I know that she holds a place in your heart I could never touch, because if I could come even come close you would have been as desperate for me to marry you as you were for her to marry you well, and I certainly wouldn't have had to debate with you to sleep with me!"

"Anya, it took no debating for us to nearly go to bed that first time. The convincing came after that horrible embarrassment! I gladly would have gone to bed with you without any convincing needed at all if I had not been so mortified that night!"

The woman shook her head. "I told you already, it's stupid and irrational. Please just let it go, I'll move past it sooner or later."

"I would much prefer you move past it now," Erik told her firmly. "The reason I have not pushed for you to marry me is admittedly partially because we are already having sex. But Anya you said it yourself, what is marriage but a promise to a virgin girl that her value will not be wasted? If you want to get married I will gladly marry you, but I don't think you do, which is why I've only asked when you get into these moods!"

"How many times do I have to tell you to let it go?" She asked, exasperated, but Erik continued.

"I had to nearly force the girl to marry me just so she would stay, Anya. She saw my face and wanted to leave without ever seeing me again. Marriage was my only choice. If you fought so hard against loving me I would be just as crazed and insistent that we marry, but I don't have to be with you. I don't have to worry that you aren't ever going to love me if we don't spend every waking moment together, because you already love me. That is something Christine could never do. She wanted to run, so I held to her as tight as I could. You… you stay. So I give you freedom. I may not be the most trusting man, and I am certainly not free from jealousy, but I don't live every moment consumed with the thought that you might run away into the arms of another man. I'm certain it doesn't make any sense to you at all, but in my mind it's the simple truth. I didn't buy her a ring because I loved her any more than I love you. She has never held any place in my heart that you do not now fill to the brim," Erik swore, certain he was rambling and that she would not understand a word.

Anya's brow furrowed and she folded her under her breasts. "Do you mean that?" She asked, studying him carefully. "I know that you loved her… but not any more than you love me?"

"Not any more at all," he promised. "Simply in a different way. I loved her like a bird in a cage. You I love like the bird who always sings at the window. And I would much rather have the bird who came to me freely."

After a moment's more inspection, Anya moved to him and pecked his lips gently. "I believe you. I'm sorry for sounding so utterly pathetic. It's just…"

"Your husband was a God-awful man, Anya," Erik told her simply. "Anyone who could love a woman more than you must be; you are nothing short of perfection. You will never be replaced, and you will never be a replacement."

Anya nodded some, not believing she was anything close to perfection but satisfied by his honesty. "Well, let's go eat then. Have you already cooked it?

"I have. I made rack of lamb with rosemary butter and roasted vegetables. It shouldn't be too filling," he promised, and Anya smiled some.

"You know, I've never had lamb before," she admitted.

"No? Well, you are in for a treat then My Love. It is one of my favorite recipes," Erik explained, leading her through the mirror into the dark passage beyond. "And I've found the perfect bottle of wine to accompany it. If it isn't the best dish you've ever tasted, I will eat my hat."

The woman laughed some. "I'm going to hold you to that, I hope you know!" She told him with a broad smile, and Erik smiled back, glad to see her slowly returning to her old self.


	17. Chapter 17

"If you put another scrap of food on my plate I won't ever speak to you again," Anya threatened half heartedly as Erik took her plate. The last time he had done so he had returned it with another full portion of food so delicious Anya couldn't help but eat every last morsel. She leaned back in her chair nursing her glass of wine, feeling about ready to burst.

Erik chuckled. "I won't. Frankly I'm surprised you finished the first plate, let alone a second," he told her, moving into the kitchen.

"You were right, it was one of the most wonderful things I've ever tasted," she smiled, closing her eyes in quiet content. "This wine is fantastic too. How did you come by such good taste?"

"Italy and Persia," Erik explained. "I certainly didn't come by it while traveling."

"Tell me a story about Persia?" she asked as Erik moved back to the table to resume his place at the head of the table, picking up his glass of wine that Anya thought looked more like a goblet it was so large.

The masked man leaned back against the back of his chair thoughtfully, racking his brain for a story that might be appropriate for feminine ears. "The Daroga had a little boy, named Reza. He was about eight years old, I think. Quite a remarkable child. I spent many hours in his company when I first arrived. I used to teach him magic tricks and make him things to play with. I think the Daroga resented how much the boy took to me."

Anya tipped her head at the bed. Never in a hundred years would she have guessed he enjoyed the company of children. He was so… serious, and often very morose. Certainly not the type of man she could imagine teaching a child magic tricks. "Do you still keep in touch?"

Erik stared into his wine for a long moment before taking a drink and shaking his head. "No, I'm afraid that would be quite impossible. The boy died."

"I'm sorry," Anya frowned. "I didn't realize-"

"It's quite all right. He was very ill. It was his time to go."

Anya's frown deepened; her miscarriage had been difficult enough, she couldn't imagine losing a child of eight whole years, especially to an illness. "Did he at least die well?" She pried quietly, and Erik nodded with conviction.

"Yes. Yes he did."

"Thank God for that-"

Erik's jaw tightened some. "It was a mercy of man, not a mercy of God. If God had His way the boy would have drowned in vomit," he explained harshly, and Anya regarded him carefully.

"You… You didn't have anything to do with the boy's death, did you?"

"I had everything to do with his death," Erik answered frankly. "And I would do it again if it meant such a child would not have to suffer. I don't suppose you've ever watched a man suffocate before, have you?"

Anya gaped some. "Of course not!"

"Well, I have. For a moment they believe it is a cruel joke, something they can overcome. They are self assured, arrogant even that the moment will only be fleeting. And then after a moment, realization floods the face and the panic begins to set in. You can see it all in their eyes as they begin to struggle and gasp for air. And then, slowly, they begin to lose awareness. The light fades from their eyes, but that look of horror and panic remains even as they draw their very last breath. A little boy should never, ever have to suffer through such a thing," he said wish such conviction that Anya could not think of a single word to say in response. After a moment, Erik rose and move to put on his coat. Anya's brow furrowed.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm taking you back, of course."

The woman frowned. "Actually… I was rather hoping to stay for a bit. We don't have another performance for three days. I thought maybe I could make you breakfast in the morning, since you made such an excellent meal tonight."

"You want to stay? After I have just confessed to the murder of a child?" Erik asked, clearly not believing her in the slightest.

"Yes, I do. I don't… really think what you did was murder. I suppose it is in the literal sense… but your heart hurts, Erik. There is more hurt in your eyes than when you've pushed me to the floor in your rage. I cannot hold a genuine act of mercy against you. And really, what right do I have to anyway? He wasn't my child, and Nadir clearly doesn't think ill of you for it or he would not still call you his friend," she reasoned, and after a moment Erik hung his coat back up on its hook.

"Very well then," he said finally. "I don't see any harm in you staying until morning. But don't expect me to be able to entertain you the whole while, I do work you know."

With that, Erik moved to the piano, and Anya watched after him curiously. He placed his wine glass upon the instrument on top of several pages of parchment and began to play. For a few minutes the music was enchantingly soft and lovely… and then the pace began to quicken. The melody was as delightful as before, full of similarities but slight, remarkable differences changing the entire feel of the piece. Anya stood and moved to watch him, entranced by the way his hands moved across the keys like fabric in a breeze. It seemed so effortless, and yet not a note felt out of place in spite of the rapidly increasing complexity of the piece.

"What are you playing?"

"Bach, of course," Erik told her, as if the whole world were able to recognize the work of a composer who had been dead for one and a quarter centuries. "Surely you've heard the Goldberg Variations?"

"I'm a dancer, not a musician," she reminded him, transfixed by the way his hands did not miss a single note in spite of speaking with her. "It's remarkable. I only know a few of his dance pieces. Serebandes, minuets, gigues…"

"He was a remarkable composer. Certainly one of, if not the best there has ever been. I've spent hours upon hours studying his work, copying out scores, and I could spend hours more and still never learn everything that went on in his mind. So much music races through my head; why was he able to record his thoughts so perfectly while I must spend hours struggling to record a melody before it is lost? His hands must have been a blur," Erik remarked.

Anya leaned over his shoulder, placing her ear just against his. Erik faltered some in his playing. "What are you doing?" He asked, too curious to ignore her to focus on his playing.

"Trying to hear whatever it is that is racing through your head. I'm sure it must be brilliant."

Erik couldn't help but smile some. "And how is that working for you?"

"Not very well," Anya confessed. "Would you play some for me?"

"You don't want to hear my work," he said simply, but Anya nodded.

"I most certainly do. Just watching you play someone else's piece is making my head reel. I can't imagine how brilliant your own work must be," she remarked, and after a bit of hesitation Erik stopped playing the variations and began to play something entirely different. It was a slow dance in minor key, with a firm but gentle bass line and a delicate melody that seemed to move above the bass like a bird in the wind. It was a haunting melody that made Anya's heart ache. How she wished she had brought her pointe shoes with her; it felt as though moving were the only way to properly express the feelings in her heart brought on by the piece, like the emotions had no words at all, only movements. She imagined a long, delicate piqué en arabesque, or even a series of long held développés. Something slow and calculate, but light and delicate all at once.

Erik stopped playing, and Anya could not help but smile some. "That was truly stunning, Erik. Would you let me dance to it at an audition?" she asked, and Erik nodded.

"By all means. I wrote it for you."

Anya was taken aback. "You wrote it for me?"

"Yes. Not too long after we first met, actually."

"But you hated me! You were mad as a hatter back then," she remarked, astonished. Erik could only shrug.

"You've fascinated me since long before you first ran into me. Normally I detest ballerinas, but the way you move is astonishing to say the least. I suppose it's a preference for the Russian style over the French."

Anya smiled some, privately. Her style was certainly different than the ballerinas who had been born and bred in France, but somehow she didn't think that was entirely why Erik had been fascinated with her. It certainly made her feel a little more at ease with him; if he had found her even remotely attractive before they had begun having sex, Anya felt it somehow lessened the odds that she was only filling a gap left by another woman.

"When did you start composing? You're very good," she remarked, sitting next to him on the piano bench.

"When I was just a boy. I'm not sure of the exact age, but no older than five or six. One of my earliest memories is lying in a crib, making a simply little melody from the bits of a broken mirror my mother had strung up as a mobile. I can't remember a day where there was not music in some form, either in my head or otherwise."

The woman regarded him curiously. "You remember all the way back to the crib? I hardly remember what I had for dinner last night."

"That would probably be because you didn't have dinner last night," Erik reminded her, amused. "But yes, I've come to believe my memory is more extensive than most, for better or worse."

Anya nodded. "Yes, I can see where it might be troublesome. Everyone has parts of their lives they would much rather forget. Funny how those parts are the ones that seem to stick with us the longest," she remarked with a thoughtful frown, considering the horrific images in her brain that haunted her nearly every time she closed her eyes, even still.

"You're quite right," Erik told her, impressed by her insightfulness. "Have you had that nightmare again?"

"Yes. I have it every week or so. Some nights if affects me worse than others," she explained, looking down at the keys of the piano. "It hasn't affected me as bad as that night you found me in a pathetic heap since then, though."

"Good," the man remarked shortly before realizing she might very well interpret him poorly. "I mean, I'm glad it hasn't affected you so badly since then."

Anya leaned her head on his shoulder. "I know what you meant," she promised. "Really, it's probably been because of you. I don't feel like that incident will ever leave my brain, but it doesn't seem as… life ending as it once did. For months it felt as though my life ended the moment he pulled the trigger. In less than a moment I was a widow with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. But instead of feeling like life is over, it feels as though life is just restarting. I have a new career, a new place to live, a new love who treats me far better than I deserve," she told him with a small smile. "It's a little strange how close I feel to you sometimes. I have to remind myself that you haven't always been in my life."

"I've had that feeling about you too. It isn't ever-present, but there have been times I've been staring into the fire or at the ceiling before I sleep, and for some reason I'm reminded that life hasn't always been this good. And that even as good as it is it gets better every day that you're in it."

Anya smiled and kissed him gently. "I love you, Erik. As difficult as your life has been, I do hope it only gets better with time."

"I have no doubt that it will," Erik promised, kissing her back.

The ballerina rested her forehead on Erik's masked one for a moment before suddenly realizing how incredibly tired she was. "I think it is well past time for me to go to bed," she told him, and Erik nodded.

"The Louise-Phillipe bedroom is yours to use, as is the bath."

"I was hoping you would join me, if you're not planning on staying up and working much more tonight. If not I wouldn't mind sleeping in your room," she suggested, too tired for sex but looking forward to sleeping with him more deeply than the short rest she had taken when she overslept her performance.

"I'm afraid my room is well out of the question. But if you'd like I can join you in your room in another hour or so," he offered, and Anya's brow furrowed curiously.

"What's wrong with your room?"

"Where I sleep isn't quite big enough for two," Erik explained, only piquing Anya's curiosity. She had never been in his room before, but couldn't imagine his bed could be any smaller than the one in her dressing room they had done more than sleep in before. Considering how opulent Erik's tastes were made the thought of him sleeping in anything less than a bed fit for a king shocking.

"All right, then," she said, kissing his masked cheek. "But do me one favor?"

"Anything, My Love."

"Take off the mask before coming to bed? I don't want you to be uncomfortable only on my account," Anya explained, and Erik looked hesitant.

"We'll see. Goodnight, My Love."

The woman frowned a little, but kissed him goodnight. "Goodnight, Erik."

Anya had not had such a good night sleep in all of her memory. Her dreams were quiet and pleasant, little fantasies about Erik's days in Persia, and what it might have been like to join him there. There were dances, and long dreams that were only lovely music and colors. She was warm and comfortable all night long, watching swans on a stream with her dream-love when she slowly began to wake. It was impossible to tell night from day so far down below the city and Anya wondered if she could get away with a few more hours of lazy dreaming without seeming like a sloth. Stretching some, she moved deeper into Erik's arms with a private smile.

So he had joined her after all. Anya was surprised by Erik's embrace on her in his sleep. For such a private man she had expected him to remain own even in sleep, not holding her so close, one leg tangled with hers and his unmasked face dipped towards her hair. He was sound asleep, leading Anya to close her eyes again and simply enjoy his closeness. Would he be embarrassed by his subconscious intimacy in the morning? Or had he intentionally held her like this before falling asleep? She supposed she would never know, and really what did it matter? He had joined her and then some, and Anya was not about to complain. It felt wonderful sleeping with a warm body again, and with none of the worries about where he had been or when he had come in.

When Anya woke again it was not her body's attempt to reason whether or not it was daylight. Erik had begun to toss and turn violently, rousing Anya to wakefulness with a start. It only took the woman a moment to notice Erik was still asleep as she sat up and tried to gently wake him.

"Erik. Erik wake up, it's only a dream," she promised, cursing herself for their talk of nightmares before bed; one of them was bound to have one.

The man calmed some but did not wake. His face still held a look of terror under its own horribleness, and his breathing was carefully controlled. Anya's brow furrowed curiously, and she had just begun to lay back down when Erik sat bolt upright with a shout so suddenly Anya yelped herself and clutched at her chest to calm her nerves.

"Erik! It was only a dream, Erik," she soothed as the man looked around wildly, unsure of where he was for a moment before collapsing back into the pillow.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Don't be. It was only the talk of nightmares right before bed," she promised, crawling on top of him to comfort him and resting her head on his chest. "Everything's all right."

Erik nodded some, holding his love close and breathing in deeply to slow his racing heart. "What were you dreaming about?" she ventured, but Erik's eyes were closed and he did not respond. Anya frowned gently, still curious but not willing to wake him. Erik was glad simply pretending to be asleep had been enough to quiet her, not quite ready to reveal certain aspects of his past to her just yet. Some things were just too horrible for new love.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As some of you may recall, a few weeks ago I was really sick... well I never really got completely better, just better enough to not complain about it. It seems stress has put me back at square one. I'm on some new medication, which I'm going to blame for my writer's block. I honestly haven't been able to do much of anything since getting on it, but I do feel a little better. If you don't see a chapter from me as often for the next week, that's why. I have an ultimate goal in mind for this story, I just... can't be deal with figuring out how to get there right now, haha. But I will get there, I promise!


	18. Chapter 18

Erik was surprised how comfortable it felt having someone so close to him for two entire days and nights. Being such a private man, when Anya expressed her desire to stay during her days off from performing he had been more than a little nervous. Would it be difficult to work with her around to distract him? Would she pry more than he was comfortable? Would she grow bored of him? Nothing ever came of his worries; Anya was simply a delight to have as company. She cooked breakfast, minded herself when she thought he was working, and made for wonderful company when he wasn't. The closest she ever got to prying was in raiding his bookshelf when she discovered his collection of Tolstoy and Pushkin was in Russian, and even then Erik didn't mind her helping herself to his library. In all honesty he was pleasantly surprised she could read at such a level.

"I didn't think ballerinas received much of an education past the alphabet and basic sentence structure," Erik remarked when he caught her engrossed in Tolstoy's The Cossacks.

"Luka said he simply couldn't be married to a woman who couldn't properly read, so he taught me the finer points," she explained, looking up at her lover with a smile. "We did do a little of it at the academy, but certainly not enough for things like this."

"Your husband was educated?"

"More or less. His family was wealthy, they sent him to school until he ran away with me and became an artist. He didn't have any schooling past fifteen, but he was always quite bright. Not nearly as bright as you though," Anya remarked closing the book. "I still don't believe you've read all those books on that shelf. Half of them were in languages I've never seen."

Erik sat in the chair across from her. "One learns more by submersion than by studying. Reading was more difficult to pick up than speaking, I admit."

"It's true. My accent is getting better, I think. And I don't take as long to understand what everyone is saying. I still prefer Russian," she added with a smile before putting the book aside and climbing into his lap. "What have you been doing all day?"

"Composing, mostly," Erik explained, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You must think I'm a boring old fool."

Anya laughed lightly. "Not at all! You pay more attention to me than anyone up in the theatre does, even when they want something from me," she promised, turning her head to kiss him with a smile. "If you were composing "mostly", what else have you been doing?"

"Sketching."

"Sketching what?" she pried, amused by his unwillingness to elaborate. It was almost as if he wanted her to pry.

"I made several sketches of you, actually, but the bulk of them are building designs," Erik confessed, as if it were a simple answer.

The woman raised a brow. "Of me? But you've been in your room, how could you have sketched me from there?"

"I have a horribly wonderful memory, remember? I didn't need a subject. Besides, I've dreamed about you often enough that your image is burned into my brain."

"Well I certainly hope that's a more pleasant thing than you make it sound," she remarked.

"It is now that my dreams are a reality," Erik promised, pecking his lover as she flushed.

"You've been sketching me naked!" she accused, less upset by it than she sounded. Really, Anya was flattered. Erik had such immensely refined tastes and an unmatchable eye for beauty; the fact he was sketching nudes of her was just another way he made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

"I've made a few of that nature," Erik admitted. "Would you like to see them?"

"…May I?" She asked, too curious to let propriety step in the way. It was only them in this underground sanctuary, after all. Who would ever know?

Anya stood to let Erik move to his room, following him to the door and watching curiously as he slipped in, hardly opening the door at all and locking I behind him. He was only fetching sketches… what did he need to lock the door for?

Erik returned after a moment, locking the door again behind him and bringing the sketches back to the chairs by the fireplace. Anya sat and Erik joined her, perching on the armrest of the chair and handing her the sketches. Each and every one of them seemed to capture her perfectly, she was shocked to see. Erik had reordered the birthmark under her right breast, her thick lashes, full cheeks and kohl-lined eyes, even her awkward dancer's proportions, all flawlessly from memory. Some of the portraits were fairly modest, while others were quite seductive.

The last two in the group nearly made her clear her throat. The first was of her at an angle, sitting with her back arched dramatically, head tipped back with waves of hair spilling down, legs spread and bent at the knee. She was leaning back on her arms, fists gripping at what appeared to be sheets of the bed she was sitting upon in the throes of passion. The other visually more modest but for one thing; it was a view of her as if the artist had been standing at the foot of the bed. It depicted her kneeling on the bed, leaning forward over her lover, who's presence could only be detected by the pair of hands in her hair, which tumbled over one of her shoulders, revealing her back shoulder to behind, which was covered just barely by a sheet.

"We've… we've never done," she started awkwardly, showing him the image of her dominating him in the sheets.

"They came from my memory, but that doesn't necessarily mean they've happened," Erik pointed out, and Anya flushed deeply.

"And this one?" She asked, holding up the more sultry of the two.

"What I imagine you must look like when I kiss your body," he all but purred, and every hair on Anya's body stood on end in delight. "I considered drawing myself in at your breasts but it turned out so well I didn't dare bastardize it."

The lovers were completely undressed before they even made it to the Louise-Phillipe bedroom in a whirl of passion. Anya had never noticed how dramatically her back really did arch against is touch, as if his hands and mouth were puppeteers to her eager flesh. Knowing what Erik imagined she looked like only made her feel more alive and desirable as her lover picked her up to fall on top of her in bed with an eager groan.

After only a split second of hesitation, Anya shifted her weight under her lover, moving her leg over him as she turned and gaining enough leverage to turn him over. Such brazenness would have gotten her slapped by her husband, but she was eager enough to fulfill one of Erik's fantasies to put propriety aside for the time being. Erik merely watched her with eager wonder as she straddled him, letting his hands rove her body and his head lull back in pleasure as she rocked over him. Anya had not anticipated how difficult nor how pleasurable it would be to dominate her lover. Several times she was tempted to move back onto her back and let him finish them off, so yearning her body was for release. She was glad she didn't, however, when that wave of pleasure finally hit her so hard she quaked and shivered for minutes rather than moments.

Anya panted in exhausted delight against Erik's chest, as he tangled his hands in her hair, kissing her deeply. They recovered together in pleasured silence until finally Anya caught her breath. "You have a wonderful, wonderful mind, Erik," she praised, littering kisses across his chest.

"It was even better than I imagined it to be," Erik told her, stroking her hair languidly. "I'm surprised I lasted long enough for you to get anything out of it. It was all I could do not to put you on your back and take you…"

"It was all I could do not to let you!" she told him with a chuckle before falling into another content moment of quiet.

"I should probably return you to the surface soon," Erik murmured after a while, clearly wishing this weren't the case.

Anya frowned deeply against his chest. "Probably." There was a performance the following night, and while her absence wouldn't be felt until noon or so the following day they had already slept up until curtain once before, and Anya did not dare take a chance like that again. "I don't want to go," she complained, kissing his chest again.

"My other sketches might remedy this situation someday," he remarked, and Anya regarded him curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"No no, I've already said too much." With that Erik forced himself out from under Anya, moving to clean himself and dress. "I'll at least make us dinner before I return you, but you really should stay in your own bed tonight."

Anya sat up and watched him. "Well, now I'm curious. What else were you sketching?"

Erik hesitated some, honestly not having meant to said anything about his other works. "It's nothing, really. Just a building."

"A building that would remedy my having to sleep by myself?" She pried, wondering it was what she quietly hoped.

The man sighed. "It's a house. I've only drawn the structure so far, none of the finer details."

"You're drawing us a house?"

"It will be more than a drawing one day, if I have any say in it," he promised as he finished, and Anya smiled privately.

"What's it like? Can I see it?"

"You wouldn't understand it yet, it's only a skeleton right now," Erik explained. "But it's going to have one level plus a cellar, all made of stone. A large bedroom and bath, a decent sized kitchen, and a music room with a whole wall that will be mirrored with a ballet bar for you to practice while I play."

Anya smiled broadly. "Truly?"

Erik chuckled some. "Truly. It may be a while before it becomes a reality, but I promise you it will be a reality someday," he swore, and Anya moved out of bed to kiss him soundly. Erik returned the gesture. "What was that for?"

"For loving me as much as you do. And to apologize for ever thinking you loved me any less. Nobody's ever so much as imagined building me a house, let alone put the plans into motion…" a thought washed over her then and her smile faded. She recovered quickly, turning to dress but Erik grabbed her arm.

"Something's the matter," he said simply, and Anya bit her lip hard.

"…I feel so ungrateful for ever thinking this for a moment. It really is the sweetest thing anyone's done for me, Erik," she promised uncomfortably, and Erik frowned.

"Out with it, Anya. What's wrong?"

"It's just… it's just that I had always planned to go to America when my career here was over. I was going to open up an academy and teach. You're planning our lives so far in advance but…"

"But you still want to go to America," Erik finished for her, simply.

Anya nodded. "Well, yes. I won't be able to dance forever. Every year is more and more likely to be my last. It's so much a part of my life I don't know that I could simply give it up and become a housewife when I retire…"

Erik was quiet for so long Anya was afraid she had deeply upset him by her admission. Finally he spoke. "It is quite a ways out from being done on paper let alone started in the real world, but you are quite a ways out from being able to afford a boat ticket, let alone to live and rent work space in America. I think we can safely leave worrying about the future alone for a while longer," he said, and Anya nodded eagerly, kissing Erik again.

"That sounds like a wonderful plan," she told him, moving away to dress while Erik left for the kitchen to make them a meal.

She knew Erik was hoping beyond hope she would decide to stay in Europe… but Anya was hoping Erik would build a home for them in America. Saying a quiet little prayer for guidance, Anya finally stepped back out of the bedroom fully dressed to join her lover for dinner before returning to the dressing room so far above the underground sanctuary. Her fitful sleep without Erik by her side told her her prayers had been answered; she would have no choice but to stay if he refused to move with her to America. If she could not sleep one night without Erik, how could she sleep the rest of her nights without him?

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks for your kind review, phantommistressI! To answer your question as best I can without spoiling anything, I base my fanfictions off of a blend between Susan Kay's Phantom and the original novel by Gaston Leroux, which should hopefully answer your question about the nature of Erik's room. As to whether Anya well ever find out, that you will have to keep reading to see!


	19. Chapter 19

On the first day of spring in the year 1887, Anya Chekov went missing from the Palais Garnier. For a week rumors whirled around the woman's disappearance. It was not unlike her to disappear for a day or two during the week to God only knew where, but she had never been late to a performance since her first production, and had never once missed a show entirely until that spring.

"Perhaps she's been seeing someone and they've eloped?" Suggested one ballerina whimsically, and another shook her head.

"Don't talk such nonsense, Jacqueline! She's being courted by the Opera Ghost, everybody knows that. How do you think she got started here in the first place? I heard she had never danced a day in her life until she came to Paris, and now she moves like an angel," explained another, to the doe-eyed wonder of the group of girls that had gathered around.

"Well, perhaps she and the Opera Ghost have eloped!"

One of the girls gasped in delight. "Does that mean we'll have a Lady Ghost now?"

Nadir frowned deeply as he walked by the group of girls on his way down into the cellars of the Opera. He stopped briefly in front of too-familiar collection of set pieces, cleverly hiding the hole leading into the torture chamber attached to Erik's house. No… he would try all other means first before going in that God forsaken place again. The Daroga was growing far too old to risk exposure to the twists and turns of Erik's mind unnecessarily.

After over an hour of careful searching, Nadir finally found himself on the banks of the underground lake. To his surprise, the row-boat was tied neatly on the shore even though its master was nowhere to be found. That meant he must be out in the theatre… but for what purpose? The Opera Ghost had been quiet of late, collecting his payments but making none of his usual demands. If Erik wasn't out tormenting ballerinas or the managers, what on earth was he doing?

"God damn you, Daroga. I've been chasing footsteps for a quarter hour and they're only yours!" Came an all too familiar voice, as Erik appeared from the darkness behind the Daroga, looking as disheartened as he sounded.

"What odd sort of game are you up to, Erik? Where is Anya, she's missed three performance in a row, no one in the Opera has seen her for days-"

"I know!" Exclaimed the masked figure in anguish. "I've been searching for her night and day. I haven't slept in three days from worry. Every corner I turn I imagine her poor, sweet little body bloated and rotting from decay," Erik lamented, and it was clear to Nadir the man was utterly exhausted.

"Come inside and rest, Erik. If you haven't found her in the cellars by now it means she isn't there. You know every inch of the place, and I'm certain you've covered it all three or four times by now," Nadir promised, clasping the man's shoulder and helping his friend into the boat.

"For months she's been staying with me on her days off, and I return her the night before her next performance. We had a whole, magnificent week together during that freak storm in February… I returned her on Wednesday night so she could rest for her performance on Thursday, but she never took the stage. When I went to her dressing room to see if she was ill it was as if she had vanished into the walls. Everything was exactly as she normally leaves it. There are hairpins on the counter, her perfume is left out, all of her clothes are in the wardrobe…" Erik rambled as he rowed. Nadir knew his friend was more distressed about Anya's disappearance than even the managers, who had been forced to issue massive refunds to patrons the past week.

Erik let them inside the house by the lake, surprising the Daroga by moving into the Louise-Phillipe bedroom and collapsing onto the bed. "You don't sleep in your room anymore?"

The masked man shook his head as he rested his fore arm over his eyes. "No. I cannot stand the sight of it anymore, not when this room holds so much beauty. But if she is dead! If she is dead I will return to my own bed and weep until I join her."

Nadir sat in a nearby chair. "You sleep in a coffin, Erik, not a bed. And anyway, you're being dramatic. I'm sure she's just fine, let's just be rational for a moment. She didn't mention she might be going anywhere?"

"If I had any clue where she might be, do you think I would be so concerned? She is dead, Daroga, I know it," Erik wept. Nadir knew there would be no reasoning with the man until he had had some rest.

"Sleep, my friend, and pray you wake up with a bit of sense in your head so that we may get to the bottom of this," the Daroga said, leaving the room and closing the door behind him. The older man kindled a fire and sat staring pensively into the flames. If Erik was truly not involved in her disappearance, it was much more of a mystery than Nadir had originally suspected.

After only a few hours, Erik emerged from the Louise-Phillipe bedroom, rousing Nadir from his thoughtful meditation. "There now. Feeling any better?"

"Not in the least. But you may ask me all the questions you like. It will waste no more time than combing the cellars again would," Erik concluded, and the Daroga nodded.

"You last saw her Wednesday evening?"

"Yes, I brought her back to her room around ten in the evening," the masked man explained sitting across from his friend by the fire.

"Was she cross with you for any reason?"

"If she was, she did a very good job of hiding it. I made dinner, and we made love. She was telling me a fairytale from her homeland when the bell struck ten and I returned her to her room."

Nadir's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "And you say she never mentioned she was going anywhere?"

"No," stated Erik simply, growing annoyed. "She asked if I would be at her performance, as she always does, and I told her I would be, as I always am. I was in my box when the curtain was due to rise, but Anya was not to be seen. Up until that moment things were perfectly ordinary."

The Daroga ran a hand over his hair. "Well I must admit Erik, this does not look good… but not for the reasons you suspect. If she intended for you to see her during the performance, she would have had no reason to seek you out and get lost," the older man explained, and Erik rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

"No, I suppose you're right."

"Nothing could be too important that she couldn't just wait to tell you after the ballet, she would have no reason to seek you out. And if she was as content as she seems to have been… Has she mentioned any strange incidences? Men staring at her too hard, angry looks from ballerinas?"

"No more or less than usual. She has been the subject of a lot of gossip ever since she was cast in Giselle, but I don't think any of the little rats would be brave enough to exact revenge beyond destroying her slippers or pulling a seam on her costume. As for the men… she is the most beautiful woman in all of France, Daroga. Of course men stare at her."

"Be serious for a moment, Erik. I suspect she's been kidnapped, and if not by you than we are dealing with the unknown, which frankly is nearly as frightening," the man snapped, growing impatient with Erik's dramatic nature. His brevity seemed to snap Erik back into awareness.

"Kidnapped! Surely you jest! Who would kidnap Anya? She is quiet as a mouse in their world; she does no harm to anyone."

"I don't know any more than you do, but the way you tell it it makes more sense than if she simply ran away," Nadir explained, and Erik frowned deeply. "You're certain there haven't been any particularly lecherous men around?"

Erik nodded. "Quite certain. One or two have been bold enough to ask her to dinner but she has turned them all down with enough force that they have kept their distance. Besides, there is a rumor about she and I which I'm sure terrifies them. And for good reason," he added, and the Daroga nodded.

"Well, there is no more I can do down here then," frowned the Persian. "Take me back to the lake, I will find my way out. And for goodness sake, get some more sleep. You've been up for days and you're understandably distraught. I will return with more news if there is more news to be had," Nadir promised as Erik took him back out to the other end of the lake so the man could return to the surface of the theatre.

For two whole days the Persian's presence was felt more in the theatre than at any time in its history. The dark man with the strange jade eyes asked relentless questions of anyone who would take the time to answer, but still came up short until the evening of the second day, when he thought to search the dressing room Anya stayed in when not visiting her lover in the cellars. The room was tidy, though clearly well lived in. The stool at the vanity was pulled out as if recently sat upon, the bed was made but not too neatly… Erik had been right, it looked for all the world as though the woman had vanished into thin air.

On the bed was something which caused Nadir's heart to sink in his chest. A neatly folded enveloped graced the pillows, addressed in red ink to Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard. Nadir took the envelope and opened it immediately without regard to whom it was addressed.

"My dear managers,

I demand five thousand franks be delivered in an unmarked envelope to the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. Leave the envelope on any of the graves you see fit. If my demands are not met by noon in seven days time, I will kill your latest starlet and make her my bride in the afterlife. What a pity nobody will pay to see her ghost dance!

-O.G."

The Persian immediately knew the note was not from the true Opera Ghost. The letters, although not the neat work of an educated man, were written too neatly; Erik's handwriting had always been grotesquely childish in nature, like a stubborn little boy being forced to practice his penmanship.

"Five thousand francs?" Exclaimed Moncharmin, flabbergasted when the Daroga presented the note to the managers. "On top of the fortune we already pay him? Who the hell does he think he is, the God-damned President?"

"I'm pretty sure even President Carnot doesn't receive such a salary," remarked Richard.

"Look more closely at the letter, Messieurs," the Persian man urged. "Do you not notice anything strange about it?"

"Red ink, an absurd demand… it certainly seems like an ordinary note from our friend the Opera Ghost to me," grumbled Moncharmin.

"Though his penmanship has improved," finished Richard, and Nadir nodded.

"That is because the letter is not written by the man you call the Opera Ghost. I'm certain the parchment is of lower quality than what the Ghost uses as well, considering the salary you pay him. You have an imposter on your hands."

The managers looked at one another curiously. "An imposter? But why?" Asked Richard, and Moncharmin merely shrugged.

"I can only guess, Messieurs, but the Ghost does seem like the perfect scapegoat. He has been living here for years and even after The Incident some time ago he was never caught. And considering the rather public way the two of you managed to spread the rumor regarding his relations with Madame Chekov… frankly it would not have been difficult at all to fool the lot of us."

Moncharmin raised a brow at the Persian man. "You're right, it wouldn't have been. So why was it our imposter was not able to fool you, Monsieur?"

"Because the Ghost is an old acquaintance of mine," the Daroga admitted. "I would go so far as to say I know him better than any man alive, which isn't saying much. I know his mannerisms, and I know his writing. This is too neatly written on too poor a quality parchment to be his. It was written by a man with a moderate income, not by a man with the tastes of a Shah."

"If you know him so well why haven't you gone to the police? The man is a monster! He's cost us thousands and thousands of-"

"Because Monsieur, even if I did go to the police there would be nothing they could do. I spent years in Persia attempting to make that many obey the law to no avail. And what's more, I don't particularly fancy being on his bad side any more than you two do. Simply hanging men and dropping a chandelier does not even scratch the surface of what the man is capable of."

Richard rubbed the back of his neck while Moncharmin began to pace. "So you're certain the Opera Ghost is not involved."

The Persian nodded. "Quite. He is as much a man as you or I. Why would he dare kill the girl, especially if the rumors of his affection are true?"

"What do you suggest we do, then? We may know it is not the Opera Ghost, but a man with a moderate income… that could be nearly anyone!"

"I suggest that you pay the sum, Messieurs."

Both of the men sputtered and spoke at the same time. "Five THOUSAND francs?"

"Are you mad?"

The dark man held up his hands calmly to quiet them. "I also suggest employing the aid of the Ghost when you deliver the sum to the graveyard. No one knows the art of deception as well as he. The kidnapper will not dare approach if the area is frequented by police, but the Ghost will have him before the man will know what struck him."

"And why should the Ghost help us?"

"If the rumors are true and he does hold affections for the woman, the worry will not be whether he will help you, but whether God will help the poor man who encounters him."


	20. Chapter 20

Erik stood in the shadows as the sun rose over the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, surveying the stretch of hallowed land with a careful eye. The cemetery was quiet today, he thought. Even the birds who normally greeted the morning joyously this time of year were silent. The man had been waiting since midnight for the sun to rise, anxiety making it impossible for him to sleep. Richard and Moncharmin were due to deliver the money the note had demanded at seven on the hour. Nobody knew if or when the author of the note would arrive to collect his payment, but Erik was prepared to wait for days if need be; he had no intention of returning to the cellars of the Opera without Anya in tow, dead or alive.

Finally there was movement towards the gates at the entry of the cemetery, and the familiar forms of the theatre managers strode quickly onto the grounds. Erik stayed well back against the side of the mausoleum which covered him in comfortable shadow as he watched the men bicker over which grave to chose, and whether they should leave the money at all. The Persian man had promised they would see their sum again, but neither man was so sure. If they could see their money again, that was one thing… but no ballerina was worth five thousand francs.

Moncharmin finally put the envelope down at the feet of an angelic statuette while Richard protested, and the pair walked solemnly away from the grave marker. How helpless they felt, leaving their fate in the hands of a man who had been extorting them for years. For all they knew this was just an elaborate scheme by the Ghost himself!

When the managers left the cemetery Erik moved through the early morning shadows, closer to where the men had left the envelope. The package was thick with francs, neatly sealed and addressed to the Opera Ghost. The true Ghost could not wait to get his hands around the neck of the imposter who took his name and his lover.

Pacing in the shadows impatiently, Erik was certain he would go mad well before the imposter ever came to collect his prize. If the man was going to wait until the deadline he had given to collect, it was going to be a long week indeed. Countless worried began to plague Erik's mind. What if she was already dead? What if he wound up killing the man before he knew where Anya was being kept? What if Anya hadn't been kidnapped at all, but had run away with the man?

A hand touched Erik's shoulder, and the masked man whirled about with his fingers laced in the Punjab lasso before spotting the Persian, holding up his hands innocently. "You're going to need to control your temper a little better than that, Erik. If you kill him, he is useless to us. We may never find out where he is keeping her."

"I know, I know," grumbled Erik, rubbing the back of his neck. "What are you doing here? You stand out like a sore thumb."

"I came to see how you were handling yourself. You're not at your most inconspicuous, I spotted you moving from the gate," Nadir berated. "Granted if I didn't know better I would have thought you were a ghost."

Erik merely hummed, though he stopped his anxious pacing and leaned against the wall of a mausoleum. "What am I going to do if she's gone, Daroga? I can't stand not seeing her for a few days, the rest of my life would be maddening."

"You coped when Christine left, albeit barely. If the worst has happened… I'm certain you will cope again," frowned Nadir, and Erik merely shook his head. How could he possibly explain how different he felt about Anya? She was the only woman… the only person in his life who had ever loved him. For her to vanish from his life as suddenly as she had entered would shatter him.

Suddenly there was a creak at the gate, and the Daroga moved off to seemingly inspect the graves and pay homage to the dead. Erik stayed put, regarding the visitor carefully. It was a young man of no more than twenty years, alone and dressed in the shirt and vest of a working man. The boy looked nervous, and it didn't take long before Erik was certain he had his man.

The young man peered cautiously at the Persian, who had found a fresh grave and was caressing it gently like a man who had recently lost a love. Erik had to applaud his acting skills, for the boy clearly judged the Persian to be harmless and perked up considerably when he saw an envelope sitting at the feet of an angelic statue. His fingers had not even brushed the parchment when he was grabbed by the throat, choked too hard to shout as he was dragged into the shadows and pinned high against the wall of the mausoleum, flailing. Erik pulled down the hood of his cloak, revealing a devilish black mask and animalistic eyes that gleamed yellow in the shade. "Do you know who I am, boy?" Erik growled, his voice seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

The young man sputtered and grasped at Erik's hand, eyes bulging. "Do you know who I am?" Erik barked before releasing the boy just enough to catch his breath and speak.

After a deep cough and a few panting breaths, the boy could still not find his words, and his eyes were filled with terror. "Well then, allow me to introduce myself. I am the true Fantôme de l'Opéra, and if you don't tell me what I wish to know, I will also be your Angel of Death," growled the masked figure.

"You… you won't kill me. You don't know where she is. You'll never find her and she'll starve," the boy stuttered, trying to sound more brave than he felt.

"You will tell me where she is, or you will die," said Erik matter-of-factly, "But I can see you think you hold the cards, so let me ask you – how is it you would prefer to die. I can strangle you, which will be slow and filled with panic. Or if you would prefer, I brought a knife, and will happily cut your beating heart from your chest. Be advised if you choose the knife I will likely be forced to mutilate your pathetic little corpse and no one will ever be able to recognize you for burial," the masked man informed his victim, whose eyes widened considerably.

"Sh-sh-she's in the basement of my apartment," the boy stuttered, terrified. "Please Monsieur, take her back, just let me live-"

"Where is the apartment! On what street!"

"**O-o-on the ****Rue de Lesdiguières. The cheapest building on the block. Please, monsieur-" Erik sharply cracked the boy's head upon the stone of the mausoleum, and let him collapse to the ground. He did not stay long enough to see if he had killed the boy, though he suspected the blow was not fatal; even if it had been, Erik felt no pity or remorse.**

**The masked man vanished, not daring to risk a single moment by letting the Daroga know the street where Anya was being kept. He ran like a madman, not bothering to cloak his face or to scowl at the people who moved out of his way in terror as he came at them like a masked demon. Erik moved from building to building, peering into low basement windows for any sign of life inside, knocking on the glass and calling out Anya's name, hoping past hope for any sort of answer.**

Erik reached the last building on the block, certain that his luck would be no better than it had been before and already making plans to break into the buildings and search each and every basement thoroughly for what he dreaded would be her corpse; it was the only explanation he could think of for why she would not answer. He knocked on the mirror flush to the ground, and called out. "Anya, My Love? If you are there, please say something, anything," he begged, knowing if he received no answer.

Almost instantly there was movement from inside, and muffled voice from behind the glass. "Erik! Erik I'm here! Can you hear me? I'm here!"

The man's heart leapt in his chest, and with a pair of kicks the glass on the window was shattered, and Erik moved to the ground to slip in the small hole. Erik's eyes took only a moment to adjust to the darkness, and in a moment he was at Anya's side where she sat on the floor, bound at the hands and feet attempting to stand, with what had once been a gag was draped around her neck

As soon as Anya's hands were free she flung her arms around her lover's neck and wept into his shoulder in a combination of stress, exhaustion, and gratitude. Erik held her tightly his own eyes tearing as well. "How did you find me? I didn't think –"

"Nadir came up with a plan to corner your kidnapper. I forced him to tell me the street," Erik explained, wiping his eyes. "I started on the other end of the street, I had almost lost hope…"

When Anya kissed him, Erik cupped her face in his hands and littered her face with kisses before wrapping her tight in his embrace. "Are you all right? He didn't hurt you?"

"He did, but not intentionally. Initially he just kept me locked down here, but I pounded at the door and window and screamed at the top of my voice. When he came down to gag me I ran for the door. He caught my arm and I fell down the stairs," she explained, untying her feet and showing him her swollen, bruised ankle. "He hasn't hardly fed or watered me," she added, suddenly remembering how parched she was.

Erik frowned deeply and stood, pulling her to her feet. When she moved to stand on her swollen ankle she cursed in pain and immediately transferred her weight to her good leg with tears in her eyes and a deep frown.

"Stay put for a moment, I'm going to open the door," Erik commanded, and Anya nodded, leaning against the wall in exhaustion. And keeping her foot well off the ground.

Erik moved up the stairs to the entrance to the basement, not surprised to find it locked. Within minutes he had managed to take the door off its hinges, and with a grunt of exertion pulled the solid wood door free from its frame. Passersby looked on curiously as Erik returned down the stairs, carrying his lover out of the building as to not disturb her injured leg. Anya wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest as he carried her rapidly through the backstreets of Paris towards the Rue Scribe. When asked, she reached into his one of his shirt pockets and withdrew a key which unlocked the gate down into the catacombs.

"Where are we going?" She asked, apprehensions of the darkness beyond as she returned Erik's key to his shirt.

"To my house. This is the most private entrance from the street," he explained, not wanting to draw any more attention to them than he already had. Even sticking to the shadows, it was impossible for people not to noticed a masked man moving so quickly through the streets, carrying a woman no less.

After what seemed like ages of nothing but darkness and arbitrary twists and turns, Erik adjusted his grip on her to touch a single stone on the stretch of wall. The wall turned deftly on an axis, depositing the pair into the dark but familiar house by the underground lake.

Anya began to cry again, overcome by its warm familiarity as Erik deposited her in the Louise-Phillipe bed before lighting the room and disappearing for a moment, returning with a pitcher of water and a tray of medical supplies. Erik handed his lover a large glass of water, and she drank from it deeply, quieting her tears. Holding the glass tightly out of nerves, she watched anxiously as Erik unrolled her torn stocking to inspect her ankle.

"It's broken, isn't it?"

"Try and move your toes," he told her, and Anya did. As hard as she tried, she was only able to get them to twitch slightly.

Erik's deep frown caused her to bite the inside of her cheeks to stop from crying. "I believe it may be," he confessed, quietly. "These things are difficult to say for sure. All we can do is splint it and wait."

The woman nodded as Erik poured her more water and began to lay out materials for a splint. "… is it going to hurt?" Anya asked quietly, watching Erik intently.

"…Yes. Probably quite a bit," he told her. "I would give you alcohol to numb the pain, but it will dry you out, and you said he wasn't watering you as it is."

Anya nodded again with a deep frown, and Erik moved to kiss her briefly. "I'll be as gentle as I can," he promised, through he knew he would have to be careful in setting the bone if she ever hoped to dance again. Odds were even with a perfect set it would never be good enough to dance upon again, but she could still teach if he did the job well. Carefully he felt along the swelling of her leg, doing his best to ignore her pained looks and to detach himself as much as possible. Finally he found a place that seemed more swollen than most, and one that got the largest reaction from Anya. With a steadying breath, Erik pressed hard with a flat piece of wood against the swollen place, gritting his teeth against Anya's cry of pain. The woman sobbed as Erik tied her ankle, supporting it with two long pieced of flat wood as he bandaged her foot. Once the deed was done, he moved further up the bed to her side to wipe away her tears.

"Please don't cry, my love," he begged. "I can't stand to think that I hurt you…"

Anya shook her head and moved to hold him. "It isn't your fault," she promised, and Erik nodded. "What did you do with the boy..?" she ventured, wiping at her eyes and leaning back against the pillows.

"I cracked his head upon stone," when he saw the look of shock in her eyes, he quickly continued. "I'm nearly certain the blow didn't kill him. I only meant to put him out. Though if I had not been so eager to find you I would certainly have destroyed him beyond recognition," Erik seethed, and buried her face into his neck. "What happened, Anya? I left you alone for barely a day and you vanished."

The woman moved over gingerly to allow Erik to move onto the bed next to her. When he was sitting she laid down with her head on his lap, eyes closing as Erik stroked her hair. "I woke up the morning after you returned me, and went to the market to get some fruit for breakfast. When I returned, the boy seemed to be looking for something near the dressing room. He told me he had dropped his wedding ring, and that his wife would simply kill him if he went home without it. I put my things down and helped me look for it… the next thing I remember, I was where you found me. I'm certain he was the oddest kidnapper there's ever been. I was terrified at first he meant to rape me or worse, but on the whole ne neglected me. I only ever saw him when he came to gag me, and twice more when he brought me food…"

"He was after money," Erik explained. "A poor man looking for an easy way out of the gutter. I'm glad your fears were never realized, though," he promised, stroking a finger down her cheek; if the man had violated her, he would have hunted him down and castrated him with his bare hands.

"Me too. I used to not be so afraid of rape, or even death… as I'm sure you remember. But that was before I met you. I had nothing back then, but now I have the world…"

Erik hushed her gently. "It didn't happen, there is no sense in dwelling on it," he promised her, remembering quite well how eerily compliant she had been in the face of possible rape by her now-lover. Anya nodded her agreement and sighed deeply.

"It's so good to be home, Erik. Thank you for coming for me."

Anya words touched Erik more deeply than she knew. This was home to her. Home… such a powerful word it was. How different the concept was from an ordinary house or dwelling. Home was a place of refuge and comfort, a place of psychological safety and belonging. Erik realized then that the house by the underground lake had never been a home to him until Anya had come into his life. It had been safe house, a hidden, lonely castle in the bowels of a theatre. In recent months however, it truly had become a home. There was love and contentment in these walls unlike ever before.

The woman rolled over onto her back to look up at her lover when he did not respond. "Is something the matter?"

Erik shook his head and leaned over to kiss her gently. "No. Quite on the contrary. Everything is perfect. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake," he promised, moving her glass of water onto the bedside table before slipping under the sheets and holding them up for her to join him. Minding her bandaged foot, Anya moved under the sheets and slipped neatly into his arms, and was asleep within moments. Erik watched over her as she slept, saying a silent prayer for the first time in years in thanks for Anya's safety; as horrible as the past week had been, Erik knew quite well they could have been much, much worse.


	21. Chapter 21

"You will be sorely missed, Madame Chekov," Moncharmin promised, kissing the woman's cheeks. "We were only just getting used to having you around!"

Anya kissed his cheeks in turn, knowing full well the men would only miss the tickets she sold. A Russian Ballerina supposedly being courted by the Opera Ghost was quite a money maker. "Thank you for a wonderful experience here, even if it was brief," smiled Anya sincerely. She had been Prima Ballerina for nearly a year when her ankle injury forced her to take a potentially permanent leave of absence from the company. Anya had to force herself every moment not to mope about and feel sorry for herself; she had grown quite fond of the Palais Garnier and of performing again. Leaving felt like losing a loved one… well, at least she had been able to grace the stage one final time before retiring from performing completely. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, as they say.

The woman tucked her final check into her skirts before limping as gracefully as possible through the halls to the dressing room to finish packing her things. Her ankle caused her so much pain, it was all she could do to walk from the dressing room to the managers' office and back. Erik had warned her not to walk on it, but what choice did she have? The company couldn't very well keep a lame dancer on payroll.

Opening the door, Anya couldn't help but smile at the sight that greeted her in spite of her melancholy. Every inch of counter space and table top was filled with flowers of every shape and size, much as it had been on her opening night. She limped over to the bed and chair by the vanity, sitting and smelling one of the nearby roses. "All right Erik, how did you manage this one? You only brought me back an hour or two ago."

Erik appeared in the room by the mirror, looking proud of himself. "Magic, of course," he explained simply. "Do you like them?"

"They're beautiful," she promised. "If only I could take them all with me."

"I'll make certain they end up wherever you do. Have you found a place to live yet?" He asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Anya limped to his side, sitting down and leaning her head on her shoulder.

"Three days ago I was in the basement of an apartment building, and until two hours ago I was in the cellars with you. I haven't even begun to look at a place to live yet," she sighed, closing her eyes. Thinking about such things made it seem even more real. Anya didn't dare tell him her first instinct was to take this opportunity to move to America.

"You really shouldn't walk on that leg," Erik insisted with a deep frown when she moved over to him. "It will never heal right."

"Well I can't very well sit in bed until it's healed, now can I?" She pointed out. "I have to pack and move my things by the end of the week."

Erik stood and moved over to the wardrobe. From inside the giant closet, Erik pulled out an elegantly carved wooden cane and brought it back to the bed for her to inspect. "I was going to wait for you to find it on your own, but you may as well have it now."

"It's lovely, Erik," she told her lover, though a frown was etched on her face. So this was her future, was it? Well, at least she could take a page from the ballet mistress' book and keep her students in line…

"Is something the matter?" Erik pried, sitting beside her again.

"What isn't the matter is a more appropriate question," the ballerina sighed. "I'm sorry to be in such a mood. I'll be better again in a few days," she promised. "Thank you. For everything. You saved me, set my let, brought me these beautiful flowers and the lovely cane… you don't deserve my foul mood."

"You've seen me in worse moods and still you can tolerate me. You deserve no less a courtesy. Besides, if this is you at your worst I am a lucky, lucky man."

Anya sighed quietly and rested her head on his shoulder again. "What am I going to do, Erik? It's going to take ages for me to heal and get any sort of strength back… I used to think thirty one years was far too old to be dancing, but to retire… now thirty one feels too young."

"First you need to heal, then you can start thinking about the future of your career. You could be lucky and make a full recovery. But I can guarantee that will not happen if you keep walking on that leg," Erik stressed, and Anya nodded.

"All right, all right, I'll stay off it."

Erik leaned over and kissed her gently. "Even if you do have to retire, maybe it would not be so horrible," he suggested. "You could open up your own school. You've certainly built up enough of a reputation to find students."

"I could," Anya admitted tentatively. "But if I were to start a school here I would have to abandon it when I leave for America-"

"So don't go to America. You can make a fine enough living in Paris."

"It isn't about making a living, Erik," Anya explained. "It's about starting a new life, in a place where nobody knows me, where no terrible things have happened. Surely you of all people can understand why that is appealing? You've done it yourself! Think of how often you've moved in your life, the places you've travelled when things where you were became difficult."

"So things are that terrible here?" Erik demanded, coldly, rising from the bed. Anya had not realized how heartless her words had been until just then.

"That isn't what I meant-"

"I know perfectly well what you meant. The bad here outweighs the good, who wouldn't want to leave?"

"Sit down you foolish man and hear me out, would you?" Anya snapped, bitterly. "I don't want to go to America to run away from you, Erik. In fact I decided the last time we talked about it however many weeks ago that I could not possibly leave Paris unless you were with me. I need you in my life more than I need air in my lungs. So stop all this nonsense as if I take you for granted. I know very well how wonderful you have been to me and how much you love me, and I love you just as much. Stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, would you?"

Erik's anger subsided as Anya spoke, and he sat back on the bed beside her, hanging his head some. Anya was right; he was perpetually waiting for something, anything negative to happen between them. When she vanished he thought her dead, when she wanted to leave for America he felt scorned… His love for the woman was so strong and perfect how could something horrible not be waiting just around the corner. "I apologize," he told her quietly. "Good things don't happen to me very often, and they never come without a price."

"I'm not upset with you, Erik, you don't have to apologize" she promised, lying back against the bed and closing her eyes in exhaustion. Since her rescue she had been sleeping hours more a day than usual and still felt fatigued all the time. Erik said I was because of the break in her leg trying to heal. Anya thought with how often it slept it ought to be healed in no time at all.

Even in her melancholy Anya was the most beautiful thing in Erik's life, he thought as he watched her. How strong she was, faced with a life altering injury and feeling nothing more than gloomy. Any other ballerina would have been an emotional whirlwind, weeping and shouting, cursing the stars for her rotten luck. Anya clearly was feeling sorry for herself, but had no intention to drag the world down with her. She mourned the probably loss of her career privately, and her strength only made Erik love her all the more.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Erik pulled out a small black box he had been carrying with him since just before Anya had gone missing. Carefully he lifted one of Anya's hands off her belly and placed it over the box. The woman's eyes opened and Anya set up, taking the box with a shaking hand.

"Erik…"

"Open it," Erik urged gently, before Anya could finish her protest.

Although she already had a strong feeling she knew what was in the box, Anya obeyed and opened it. Inside was a white gold band with a modestly sized diamond flanked by two more diamonds only slightly smaller the center one. Although Anya had guessed correctly on the contents of the box, it still surprised her; she had expected it to be the same or a similar ring to the one he had given the now-Vicomtess, a simple gold band to symbolize eternal belonging. This ring was a work of art in itself.

The ballerina looked with wide eyes from the ring to her lover. "Erik… I can't accept this."

"Why not? We're in love, aren't we? Why shouldn't we be married?"

"If that was all that was needed in a marriage I would say yes in a heartbeat," Anya swore upon hearing the hurt in Erik's voice. "But it isn't, Erik."

"What else could there be?"

"Erik, I don't have a career, or a place to live, or even two proper legs to walk on at the moment! This is a massive change in my life, I have no reason to get married and drag somebody else through it-"

"I make enough money for the both of us, you don't need to work. You would never be working class again if you marry me. You can live with me, your leg will heal."

Anya chewed the inside of her lip. "I can't live underground and be a housewife, Erik. I need to move. I love your house and the time we spend there… it's even more my home than this room is. Was, I suppose. But I couldn't spend every single day underground. I need sunlight, things to do. I would grow restless and make the both of us miserable-"

"We'll open up a dance school, and you can teach," Erik suggested. "You would be out as long as you wanted every day, as many days a week as you want. I don't need for you to cook and clean, I've been doing all that for myself for years. I only need for you to love me and to share your life with me," he said, barely more than a whisper.

Anya looked back down at the ring, heart and mind racing in very different ways. Her mind kept running over and over the complications and difficulties a marriage would bring them both… but her heart told her to damn the complications and to take them in stride. It had worked once before, after all. Or at least, it had worked for a while before.

"…Okay," Anya finally said with a small nod. "I will marry you, Erik."

Erik littered kisses over Anya's face, nearly crying from joy and excitement. His raw emotion touched Anya so deeply she began to feel her own eyes well with tears as she kissed her new fiancé back repeatedly. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had made the right decision. Perhaps it would not be an easy marriage, but what marriage ever was? At the very least she would have a husband who worshiped her, and he would have a wife who adored him for eternity.

Pulling away from Erik's persistent kisses, Anya removed her engagement ring and wedding band from her left hand for the first time in seventeen years. How light her hand felt, unadorned by the bonds of marriage… Anya inspected her naked finger with furrowed brow as Erik took the engagement band from its little box and took up Anya's hand in his. With lithe, delicate fingers, Erik slid the band onto her wedding finger. He frowned when it fit loosely around her finger, slipping some as she held out her hand to inspect it.

Anya kissed him reassuringly. "Ring sizes aren't nearly as easy as dress sizes. I'll have it sized first thing in the morning," she promised, kissing her fiancé deeply.

"What will you do with your husband's rings?"

"My ex husband's rings, Fiance," Anya smiled some. "I don't know. I'll keep them I suppose. I don't think they're worth very much, but they might be someday. If you'd rather I pawn them…"

Erik shook his head. "Do what you'd like with them. I don't care as long as it's my ring on your finger from now on," he promised, kissing her deeply. Anya returned the kiss in the same manner, and before long the pair were consummating their engagement lovingly in the sheets, the pain in Anya's leg completely vanishing as she arched under her lover in ecstasy. In the place of pain came that familiar, sweet wave of pleasure that made her whole body warm and relaxed as Erik collapsed over her, spent.

Anya tipped her head for her fiancé as he kissed and nibbled at her neck languidly, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as he blanketed her comfortably. The woman smiled privately at his intimacy, knowing his openness was for her and only for her.

"Mmm," she hummed pleasantly , trailing her fingers along her fiance's back. "What is my new name going to be?" Anya asked thoughtfully, smiling to Erik.

To her surprise, the man frowned some. "You mean to take my name?"

"Of course I do. I don't suppose it makes a difference since nobody will recognize it, but I certainly don't want the name Chekov after we're married."

"What is your maiden name?" Erik asked after a thoughtful moment of silence.

"Rusayev. Why?"

"Then I think your name should be Anya Rusayev," he said, turning over and pulling Anya on top of him.

Anya folded her arms under her chin and looked up at him. "Why would I take my maiden name?"

"Because I have no name to give you."

The woman frowned some. "Didn't your mother give you a name?"

"No. She told the priest who christened me to give me his own name. I suppose if he gave me his whole name, it is Erik Mansart, but I very much doubt he was so self-loathing."

After a long moment of silence, Anya finally spoke again. "I think in that case you should take my name, Erik."

Erik raised a brow under his mask. "What sense would that make? Not having a surname has never harmed me before."

"Then having one won't harm you now. It doesn't seem right for a husband and a wife not to share a name, is all. We are going to share everything else, why should I have a name and not you?"

The masked man considered this for a long while, stroking his fiance's hair as he thought in silence. "I have a compromise. We will pick a surname together, and both take it when we are married."

"I suppose that would work. But why not simply use mine? It would save us the trouble of finding one that suits us."

"Because it is wrong for me to take your family name. It was given to you and intended for you, not for me. I may be a part of your life but I will never be a part of your family's."

Anya considered this and nodded her understanding. "All right. We'll make up a name for our own family, then."


	22. Chapter 22

With the help of Erik and the Daroga, Anya moved her belongings to the house by the underground lake in less than a day.

"I'm sorry to hear about your leg, but I am terribly relieved to see you're well," Nadir smiled when Anya embraced him.

"Thank you for helping Erik find me. It was horrible down there."

"I only helped the managers to see the obvious solution," the Daroga promised, keeping the woman company while Erik was out retrieving the last of the flowers from the dressing room. "I say, is that a new ring or have I simply not noticed it before? My powers of observation aren't what they used to be…"

Anya beamed, holding it out for the man to examine like a giddy school girl. "It is new. Have you noticed which hand it's on?"

"Allah, he actually proposed?"

The woman nodded eagerly. "He did. Not for the first time, but it's been the first time he's been serious enough to buy a ring."

"Well I must say his tastes have improved, both in rings and in women," Nadir praised, and Anya smiled.

"I have to admit, I was thrilled when I saw it. The band he got for Christine seemed like a hasty pick from a street vendor. Not that I need anything elaborate, but the thought is appreciated. It's simply perfect."

"What are you going to do with your other rings?"

"Put them away with the jewelry I inherited from my mother. They're nothing special, but gold is a good investment. I'd feel horrible if we sold them now and their value went up when we really need the money."

"And Erik is all right with that?"

Anya nodded. "Yes, he seems to be. I was worried about that too. He is terribly possessive at times."

"That, my dear, is the understatement of the century," Nadir said plainly, and Anya laughed. "At any rate, my sincerest congratulations to you both. I do hope to be invited to the ceremony."

"I'm certain you'll be the only one on our guest list. I hardly know anyone here but you and Erik, and the people I do know only know Erik as the Opera Ghost.

"None of your family will be attending?"

The woman sat and rubbed at her leg over the bandages; how terribly they itched at times! "I don't believe so. My parents died a few years ago, my brother is too poor to afford a ticket, and my sister… my sister and aren't on speaking terms."

Nadir frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's quite all right. They've been to one of my weddings before. With my rotten luck Erik would probably fall in love with Eva and take her to the altar instead," she grumbled, and Nadir could not help but chuckle fondly.

"My dear, Erik is a passionate man, but you are his passion. Your sister could be Aphrodite herself and Erik would remain as devoted towards you as ever."

"Do you think?"

The Daroga nodded. "I'm certain of it. That man does nothing half-way, including romance. It took him years and a wonderful new woman in his life to put Christine aside, and you are far more fitting for him than she was. The poor girl needed a prince, and Erik is neither a prince nor does he need a princess."

The wall of the dining room opened, and Erik slipped inside, arms laden with flowers. Nadir smiled at the man. "We were just discussing your engagement! Congratulations my friend. Have you set a date?"

"Not yet," Erik told the Persian. "She only just accepted last night, though I asked her months ago."

"You asked me after I took your virginity, and without a ring! Last night was time I could believe you were serious enough to give you a serious answer," Anya informed him as he set the flowers down in the Louise-Phillipe room before moving to peck his fiancé.

"Yes yes, so you've said," he dismissed, and Anya smiled fondly.

"So you intend to live down here for the duration of your marriage?" Nadir asked, a little more cautiously. Anya frowned, knowing this was not a comfortable subject for Erik.

"Why do you ask, Daroga?"

Nadir held up his hands some in his own defense. "It's only that it doesn't seem an appropriate place for anyone to be living into old age, let alone your new bride. And if you have children-"

"I'm barren," Anya told Nadir quickly, not wanting the man to get ahead of himself and potentially set Erik into a mood. "We won't be needing to worry about children."

"Well, that I am sorry to hear. The world could use more women like you. But that doesn't change the fact it seems like a strange place to start a life. You have that perfectly good flat you let sit around collecting dust and mail. Why not move there?"

Anya raised a brow at her fiancé. "You have a flat?"

"I lived there briefly until construction on the cellars was finished. It isn't much of anything."

"Neither is this place," Nadir pointed out, earning him a stern glare from the masked man. "I know you worked terribly hard on it, but there are no windows, no easy paths to the outside world. And the poor woman's leg is injured no less. She shouldn't have to be walking miles at a time to see the sun. Not to mention you'll have to teach her the Rue Scribe exit! What if she gets lost in the catacombs?"

"I'll simply go up and down with her and assure that doesn't happen," Erik answered simply. "Really Daroga, if I didn't know better I would think you were her mother. Should I ask your permission before setting a date?"

The Persian rolled his eyes. "I'm only attempting to be practical, Erik. I know how impulsive you are-"

"Erik, would you please put on some tea?" She asked, interrupting the argument and breathing a small sigh of relief when Erik left the room to do so. "Nadir, please. We're still trying to figure all of this out ourselves, there's no need to put any more stress on him than necessary. Thank you for your concern, though," she added, not wishing him to think her ungrateful.

Nadir nodded. "Very well. It's just that I've been hoping for years he would start living more like a normal man than he does, for his own sake. I would hate for him to not only waste this opportunity, but to bring someone else down into this madness with him."

"It isn't madness, Daroga. It is something of a necessity. You should have seen how people stared at him when he was bringing me back to the Opera from that horrible place. Anyone else carrying a woman would have been thought romantic, Erik was regarded as a predator. I would love to live a normal life with him, but if that simply isn't possible than I will be just fine living down here. Besides, I'm going to open a dance school, I'll be out of the house plenty enough to keep me sane," she promised, and Nadir seemed at least somewhat satisfied by her answer.

"Good, then. As long as you are content, that is all that matters. Which reminds me, how did you come to know you're barren?"

"I miscarried once, when I was first wed. The doctor had been shocked I conceived at all, and pronounced me barren on the spot. I've never been healthy enough to properly conceive let alone carry a baby," Anya explained as Erik returned to the room with a pot of tea.

"What's all this about babies?" He asked, sounding more than a little on edge.

"I asked how she came to find out she was barren," Nadir explained. "Nothing to worry yourself over, I promise you."

"Unless you want children," Anya added, suddenly realizing she and Erik had never really discussed the matter. Anya assumed that because she was unable to have children there was nothing to discuss; she hadn't realized her inability to conceive might bother him until now.

Erik shook his head. "God, no. I would pity any child who had to call me its father. Your barrenness is a blessing," Erik promised. Anya was a strange mix of relieved and upset by his behavior, though she couldn't quite place why.

"Good then. It's not as if there's anything I can do about it, after all," Anya remarked as she accepted a cup of tea her fiancé offered her. Nadir waved his hand when Erik offered him a cup.

"Thank you, but I must be going. I have an appointment with the physician in an hour or so."

Anya frowned deeply. "You're not ill are you?"

"I'm sure it's nothing," Nadir promised with a smile. "Just a tightness in my chest I haven't been able to get rid of."

"I could take a look if you'd like?" Erik offered, but Nadir waved him off.

"You've played physician for me far too many times, it's about time I actually pay someone."

Erik frowned some. "All right. But if the man doesn't give you a straight answer, I demand to examine you."

"You have a deal," Promised Nadir, who stepped out of the dining room with Erik to be rowed ashore. Erik returned before long to find Anya in the kitchen, leaning on her cane as she put on a pot of water for more tea.

Moving behind her, Erik kissed her cheek fondly. "You drank the whole pot?"

"I was parched," she smiled. "I was hoping to have this pot done by the time you got back so you wouldn't think me a great glutton."

"By all means, drink as much as you need. Tea has healing powers more than any physician will ever know."

"Do you think?"

"I'm certain of it. The woman I learned apothecary from drank at least a pot a day, and I wouldn't be surprised if she was as old as the Gypsies claimed she was."

"How old was that?"

"Two hundred and twelve."

Anya's eyes widened. "She was not!"

The masked man chuckled. "I can't say for certain, but I for one believe it. She was still alive, even when I left. You know some people say the fountain of youth is actually a tea tree in China."

"Do they really?"

Erik nodded. "They do. I've been to the tree most people claim to be the fountain. It's right by a natural hot spring. The tea leaves fall into the spring and brew endlessly."

Anya loved the stories he told, even if they were sometimes bizarre and absurd. The way he told them with such eloquence and conviction always entranced Anya.

"Did you drink from it?"

"I did not. Nor did I bathe in it, as was suggested."

"Well I wouldn't drink from it either if others were bathing in it!" Anya exclaimed so enthusiastically Erik had to laugh.

"Yes, that was certainly one of my concerns."

"But why didn't you bathe in it then?"

"I had no desire to be immortal. What good would it do me? I had just left Persia, where I was an immensely wealthy, powerful man, and had become little more than a vagrant again in my exile. That on top of my accursed ugliness, I simply had no desire to live on while everyone around me grew old and died. And if it were true, and it would have made me immortal, think of us. You would grow old and someday die, and then what would become of me?"

"I never thought of that," Anya remarked, brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I wouldn't want to live forever either, I don't think. Though being young again wouldn't hurt. Especially if it would heal my ankle more quickly."

"You are easily twenty years my junior, woman," Erik remarked with amusion. "Do not talk to me about being young again. I was in the prime of my life when you were in the crib!"

"Just because you are ancient doesn't make me young," Anya remarked, trying her best to keep a straight face.

Erik laughed heartily, with more sincere joy than she could ever remember hearing come from his mouth. Anya grinned from ear to hear at the very sound of it.

"You, My Love, are a horrible, horrible woman!"

"Tell me Erik, did you used to slay dragons for sport? Rescue damsels from towers while wearing shining armor?"

"You had better stop if before my sides split and my guts spill all over the floor and you will have to clean it all up yourself."

Anya smacked his arm gently. "You have a horrible imagination sometimes, Erik," she scolded, still smiling.

"Which is why I am stunned beyond all belief that you love me. I must have atoned for some great sin for my luck to finally be this wonderful," he told her, kissing her gently as the pot of water began to whistle.

"Let me make dinner tonight," Anya offered. "You haven't let me cook anything but breakfast."

"What did you have in mind?"

Anya considered for a moment. "Shchi and varenyky. I'll throw whatever meat and mushrooms we have in, no trip to the store needed."

Erik nodded; he remembered trying shchi during his brief stay in Russia, and the cabbage soup had been pleasant enough. "All right. But don't move around too much on that leg."

"Yes, Papa," Anya teased, and Erik rolled his eyes some, helping her gather ingredients so she wouldn't have to hunt for them. Once all the ingredients were out and on the counter, Anya began her pleasant preparation of dishes which had been staples of her youth. Shchi was a common first course in Russian households, and in poorer homes it was a filling meal in itself. The cabbage soup had gotten she and her husband through many rough seasons when attendance at the ballet had been down and paintings were not being sold. Varenyky was one of Anya's favorite meals, and while mushrooms here were different than the ones she was used to from home she chopped them neatly and added them to the dish, stuffing the dumplings with mushrooms, meat, and cheese in a marriage of French and Russian cuisine. She had no idea how it would taste, but she couldn't imagine the combination being anything but delicious.

As Anya stirred the pot of soup in the kitchen, she heard a thud and a shatter from the other room. Alarmed, she took up her cane and moved into the dining room. It sat empty, but Erik's door was slightly ajar; Anya moved immediately to the door, knowing Erik's carefulness at closing and locking the door whenever she was in the house.

When she tried to push the door open further, her heart sank when it hit a sturdy object cloaked in black on the floor. "Erik!" She yelped, pushing as hard against the door as she could to move into the room, all but falling on top of her fiancé and shaking him firmly. "Erik! Erik wake up!"

The man did not stir even when Anya began weeping hysterically, laying over her husband unable to control her violent shaking. "Please wake up, Erik," she bawled, resting her head on her husband's chest and holding him close in anguish. "Please don't leave me."

After a moment, Anya forced her crying to quiet- what was that sound coming from her husband's chest? She listened intently trying her best to control her grief enough to listen… there it was again! The sweet, sweet beat of a heart underneath his flesh renewed Anya's crying in full, but for an entirely different reason. He was alive! Thank God Almighty, Erik was alive!


	23. Chapter 23

When Erik finally woke, it felt as though there were a weight on his chest, clutching at his heart and lungs, making him painfully aware of ever single heartbeat and breath. His mouth was bone dry and his limbs felt heavy, as if pinned to the floor. Finally he was able to lift his arm, and it brushed against a soft mass of sandy blonde waves nestle into his shoulder.

Erik looked down to see Anya curled against him, eyes puffy and red as if she had been crying for hours, hands pulled tight up to her chin as her body lie flush against his side. They were on the floor of the master bedroom, he realized with a sudden sense of dread; what were they doing on the floor, and what of Erik's room had the woman seen?

Anya began to stir against him, waking slowly until seeming to start into full alertness. "Erik! Erik you're awake!" She exclaimed, leaning over him and kissing him repeatedly. Erik returned the kisses as best he could with his head filled with fog and his body filled with stones.

"What happened?"

"I don't know!" She exclaimed, crying gently and kissing him again. "I was in the kitchen and I heard a thud and a crash. When I checked for you in the dining room your door was open, and you were on the floor. I'm sure the crash came from the lamp that broke when you fell… but I don't know why you fell," she frowned, burring her face in his chest.

Erik placed a heavy hand on her head and forced himself to fight the heavy weight on his chest enough to sit up. Anya threw her arms around his neck and breathed him in deeply, and Erik held her in turn. "I thought you were dead," she whispered into his neck, nearly too quiet to hear. "You're not going to die, are you?"

The masked man frowned deeply. "Everyone dies, Anya. Some sooner than others. But if I have my way we will have a long and happy life before my time comes," he promised.

"…Then why do you keep a coffin in your room?" She asked, looking over to the casket which sat in the very center of the room, open as if beckoning someone, anyone to lie inside its silk lined trap.

"Don't worry your pretty head over it," Erik dismissed, attempting to stand slowly. Anya helped him to his feet when his knees appeared weak, though he avoided using her as a crutch. "Where is your cane, you shouldn't be on that leg."

"Would you stop fussing over me for just a moment, Erik?" She demanded. "You collapsed on the floor and refused to wake up, and you sleep in a coffin!"

"I sleep with you," Erik told her simply. "And when you aren't here I still sleep in the bed we share. The coffin is a remnant of my darker days."

"Did you ever sleep in it?"

"I did."

Anya looked more disgusted than she had even at the sight of his face. "Why would even you do something so morbid!"

"For years I longed for death, Anya. My life was a sea of chemicals, music, and loneliness. Nothing but those things existed for years, a decade even. I rarely ate, and I slept even less often than that. When I did sleep I would stare from the coffin, waiting for the day I could finally close my eyes and sleep for eternity. I was so horribly tired! Depression fatigued me as much as music and drugs invigorated me. I don't know how my body didn't simply give up on living when Christine left with the Vicomte. I crawled into the coffin and waited for death, but it never came. I closed my eyes, but they always opened again. I was not well then, Anya. I wished for death to release me from the pain of living, since music and chemicals no longer worked and love had abandoned me. But I was too much a coward to take my own life and my body was not ready to give in."

The woman gaped at him. "Well your wishes are finally coming true, Erik. What if you had died tonight, Erik?"

"I don't wish to die anymore," he explained with thinning patience. "I haven't since not long after I met you. And I didn't die-"

"Maybe Fate is a little late in granting your wishes! I'm sure she's a very busy woman, maybe you were just put in line," Anya snapped some. "And you didn't die this time, but what if it happens again? I won't be a widow again, Erik. I won't do it," she told him unable to hold back her tears.

Erik moved to embrace her, pulling her head into his neck. "I can make no promises, Anya, but I can tell you that I have no intention or desire to die before we are old and gray. Older and grayer than I am already," he added somewhat more lightly and Anya attempted to laugh some through her tears. "I didn't die, today, I won't die tomorrow, or the next day," he told her, kissing her tears as she nodded.

"Okay," was all she could manage, holding her fiancé tightly and enjoying his warmth and his smell. How frightened she had been she would never experience those sensations again!

"Would you feel better if I disposed of the coffin?" Erik offered, seeing she was still quite upset. Anya nodded eagerly.

"Much. You sleep in the bed even when I'm not here?"

Erik nodded, honestly. "Ever since we began sleeping together. I've been sleeping a lot more than usual, too. The smell of you on the pillows helps put me to sleep," he confessed, and Anya tightened her hold on him, nodding again.

"What happened, Erik?"

"…I think it was an ailment of the heart," he confessed, though he was more certain than he sounded. The throbbing in his left arm and the pain in his chest left little room for doubt.

Anya nodded some, thoughtfully. "It sounded so faint…"

"There was likely a moment when it didn't sound at all," Erik explained. "No one knows how or why it happens. It tends to affect men of an older age, which I am. The explanation fits."

The ballerina frowned some, moving away from him to sit on the bed and rub at her leg absently. "Anya, what's wrong?"

"Most men don't live through such a thing. Luka's father died of an affliction of the heart…"

"I lived," Erik said soundly, and Anya nodded.

"Yes… but Erik, what if it happens again? Could it happen again?"

"That I have no answer for. I suppose anything is possible. But I am otherwise very healthy, Anya. I haven't been ill in years until last night, and most of my illnesses were not natural to begin with."

Anya frowned. "What were they then?"

"Assassination attempts, generally. I did get very sick when I first came to Paris, though I was penniless and stealing scraps of food to survive the winter."

"I'm glad you're all right," she told him, softly, and Erik kissed the top of her head. Anya was unable to imagine him penniless on the streets, so expensive were his tastes…

"So am I," Erik promised. "I'll be rid of the coffin as soon as my strength is back."

Anya kissed him in gratitude before looking rather alarmed. "Merde! I never took the soup off the fire…" Quickly as she could she limped back into the kitchen, giving Erik a chance to close and lock his bedroom door behind them. Anya took the pot off the stove with a large frown. "Well so much for making you dinner…"

"I shouldn't be eating right now anyway," Erik reassured her. "But if you're hungry I can make you something."

"That's all right, I never put in the dumplings. I'll steam them instead."

"All right. I'm going to go pick up the lamp I broke. Breaking something so beautiful ought to be a sin," he grumbled, and Anya couldn't help but chuckle some in spite of her lingering worry.

"It was an accident, Erik, you didn't mean to break it."

"Broken is broken," he said simply, and she shook her head fondly as she put food on for herself.

When she sat at the table to eat, Erik poured them each a glass of red wine and sat with her while she ate. "Are you sure you won't eat just one?" Anya offered. "They turned out better than I thought they might."

"I'm certain. My stomach is still in knots."

"Why are you drinking then?"

"Force of habit, I suppose," he promised, and truly he had not yet touched a drop.

The woman ate in a silence that slowly began to grow less comfortable. Erik frowned some. "Is something the matter, Love?"

"It's just something I didn't think about before. What would I have done if you really had died?"

"I suppose the same thing you did when your husband died. Move and start a fresh life somewhere."

"That's not what I meant," she said, thoughtfully. "I meant more immediately than that. I can't swim, and I've never rowed a boat in my life. And besides, I've heard a story that there's a Siren in the lake…"

"I never realized you were superstitious," Erik remarked. "There is no siren, only me. Though I suppose that doesn't help your situation if you can't row or swim," he added with a furrowed brow under the mask.

"How can it be you? Sirens are women."

"Throwing my voice isn't the only thing I can do with it, ma chere," he explained in a sultry, feminine voice not unlike her own so flawlessly it made Anya jump and Erik chuckle at her reaction. "It's only a ruse to keep anyone too curious about the lake at bay," he promised in his own voice again, finally touching the wine to his lips.

Anya picked at her food in silent thought before Erik spoke again. "I would never recommend you swim the lake, but I could teach you to row. It isn't so difficult."

"And if the boat tips?"

"Then I will also teach you to swim," Erik suggested, and Anya shook her head.

"My leg is still bad, Erik. You said yourself we won't know how long it takes to heal until it's healed… what if something happens before I've mastered rowing or swimming?"

"It won't," Erik promised firmly, but Anya didn't look convinced; after all, it wasn't supposed to happen at all.

"…Couldn't we find a place above ground, Erik? Maybe that flat the Daroga said you collect mail from-"

"I cannot survive in the outside world, Anya," Erik told her firmly, causing the woman to frown.

"And if something happens to you I cannot survive here," she pointed out, putting down her fork. "Especially if it happens again soon. I couldn't even leave to get you help,"

"What help could you possibly fetch? Even if you could get a physician to come and stay, there would be nothing they could do."

Anya frowned some. "The Daroga-"

"The Daroga would be of even less assistance, though admittedly he would come more readily than a physician."

Anya only frowned and took her plate and utensils into the kitchen to clean. Erik stayed where he sat as she attempted to look as dignified as possible while limping on a pained leg. After a long moment he took another quiet sip of his wine. "This really is bothering you, isn't it?"

The woman moved away from the sink and reappeared in the entryway to the dining room. "Of course it is, Erik. You could have died tonight," she frowned. "I don't know what I would have done if you had…. Both in terms of escaping this house and what you suggested about starting a new life. I don't know if I can do all that again. I don't know if I want to. I want to live a full life for once. I'm too young to be twice a widow…"

"You're doubting our engagement," he said, standing bitterly and moving to pour out the remainder of his wine.

"No, I'm not," she told him firmly. "Not for a moment. Honestly Erik, I do tire of you accusing me of wanting to leave every time I'm frustrated with something,"

"But leaving is what you want."

"I want to leave _with_ you, Erik. We could so easily go to America, or even easier to your flat," she added, not wanting to start yet another debate. If something like this happened again at least I could feel a little better knowing help was available. Here there is nothing!"

"I will consider it," Erik said finally, and Anya folded her arms.

"Which of course means no."

"I told you I will consider it, I will consider it," Erik snapped, moving towards his bedroom.

"People rarely mean that when they say it, Erik, and those who do certainly don't take your tone," Anya snapped back.

Erik slipped inside and locked the door behind him and within moments the furious pounding on the organ began and Anya cursed his stubbornness over the fugue before retiring to bed with a pillow over her head in a very unsuccessful attempt to drown out the music from the other room, its frustration flooding her mind body and soul.

Finally the relentless music stopped, and there was silence from the other room. Anya gave a small sigh of relief and removed the pillow in an attempt to finally sleep. She was prevented from doing so when after twenty minutes Erik still had not joined her. With a worried frown the woman slipped out of bed and took up her cane to knock on Erik's door. "Erik? Are you all right?"

"I am alive, if that is your concern," came Erik's familiar voice from the other side of the door, allowing Anya to release a small breath she had not realized she was holding.

"That was one of my concerns, yes," she said, and Erik finally opened the door.

"And the other?"

"Are you coming to bed?"

"Not tonight."

Anya frowned deeply. "Because of a stupid argument?"

"Because I am too frustrated to share a bed with you tonight in good conscience.

"Erik-"

Erik closed the door before she could finish speaking, and Anya set her jaw firmly before knocking again. The masked man flung open the door, but was interrupted before he could speak.

"I won't be treated like this, Erik! You invited me into your home and now you're treating me like an unwanted guest! Would you truly rather sleep in that ungodly casket than with your fiancé? If so, you're about to have considerably more to be frustrated about than my worries about our living arrangement," she snapped, and Erik pursed his lips.

"Was that a threat, Anya?"

"It was. I can't be with a man who walks so close to death so willingly, Erik. I've been there before and it did not end well."

Erik was quiet for a long moment with a tight jaw and pursed lips before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. Anya breathed a small sigh of relief as he moved into the Louise-Phillipe bedroom and she followed him into the bed. The masked man turned away from her, and Anya deliberately curled against his back assuringly. The man was damned stubborn, but Anya was not about to let him talk himself into believing he was any less loved because of a fight.


	24. Chapter 24

For three days Anya only spoke to Erik when she was directly addressed. She found his stubbornness exhausting, and the confinement in the house by the lake more exhausting still. Every hour of every day that passed, Anya began to feel her request to move to the surface was more and more validated.

Perhaps things would get better when she had a reason to be out of the house, she reasoned. Really if she and Erik hadn't fought the house would only be dull and not so uncomfortable as it was. She had stayed there for days on end before and had never gotten so anxious before, after all.

"Erik, I want you to take me into the city today," she said one morning, breaking the silence of their breakfast.

"I can't take you today, I'm having trouble with the libretto for my new aria."

Anya rolled her eyes some. "You mean you _won't_ take me to spite me," she corrected, putting down her fork. "Really Erik, this is getting ridiculous."

"You caught me, Anya," Erik said dryly. "How did you know my life revolves around spiting you? What do you need to do in the city anyway?"

"I want to start looking for a place where I can teach dance. I'm getting restless, and frankly you are driving me up the wall since that stupid argument we had days ago. I don't suppose you've actually been considering moving to the city, like you promise you would?"

"I have been, actually."

"And?"

"And I haven't made a decision yet, but and I'm certainly not inclined to make a decision soon with the way you've been behaving."

Anya's mouth hung open. "With the way I've been behaving? You're the one who's been acting like a stubborn child!"

"It's rather difficult to be kind to you when it's quite clear you're thinking awful thoughts ever time you look at me."

The woman successfully fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Erik I love you, but that doesn't have to mean I like you all the time. We're going to have disagreements; that's living with another person for you. In some cases one of us will win, in other cases there will be compromises. There's no point in making ourselves miserable over an argument from days ago."

Erik pursed his lips some. "All right I'll take you up. But be prepared to stay up there the whole day, I won't come to pick you up until nightfall."

Anya took up her plate and moved to dress more appropriately for the city, keeping her cane close by. "Is the libretto really giving you that much trouble?" She asked as Erik took them through an exit she hadn't used before. Instead of the shore of the lake, they stepped out into a pitch black passage that made Anya's blood freeze in her veins. Instinctively she moved closer to where she thought he was, and Erik put a calm hand on her lower back to guide her.

"Almost as much trouble as you've been giving me these past few days," he remarked with a small sigh. "The music comes naturally but the words aren't always so easy."

"Have you thought of using words that are already written? I hear that's what a lot of composers do."

"I thought about it, yes. Nothing seems to fit though, at least not in any language suitable for Opera."

"Why are you writing an Opera? Really you should write a ballet. All you would need to write is music, and I could even choreograph it for you if you wanted to have it performed-"

"I have no interest in writing a ballet," Erik said simply, and Anya frowned some. "Besides, your leg still needs healing. It will be a while before you can choreograph anything."

"It will be a while before the work is done. Why don't you have any interest in a ballet?"

"I prefer the Opera is all. The text can provide such a wonderful story-"

Anya shrugged some. "Not if you can't find a libretto it can't," she pointed out. "Besides, music is so much more powerful than anything sung! I know you, you would write something too virtuosic for any singer to perform up to your standards. I'm certain most of the orchestra would have a hard enough time with anything you write. But a dancer wouldn't be effected-"

"I am writing La Belle et la Bête," he explained. "I simply cannot picture it as a ballet."

"I've danced a ballet of the very story! There was no original score though; it was pulled from works of various composers. I think it would make a wonderful ballet. And it would save you the stress of writing an aria."

Erik was quiet for a long while before speaking again. "If I can't make any progress with the libretto, I will consider it. Not many of the pieces are meant to be danced at the moment, though."

"That's all right, I'm sure you could turn them into dances without sacrificing the melody," she promised, knowing her fiancé was a remarkably talented musician. The passage grew lighter and the gate Erik had taken her down into the catacombs through when he had rescued her became clear. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me?" Anya offered, already knowing the answer but deciding to tempt him anyway. "We could make a day of it and have lunch."

"I'm afraid I couldn't even if I had the time today."

A small frown crept onto Anya's face as Erik unlocked the gate to let her through. "Why not?"

"I am far too obvious, Anya. Even when I take precautions I am the ugliest man in the city and it does not go unnoticed," Erik explained, causing the woman to bite her lip some. Before Erik could close the gate behind her, she turned and kissed him soundly.

"I love you. When should I be back here?"

"I will meet you here at sun down," he told her, returning her kiss though he was surprised she had kissed him at all. "Mind your leg."

"I plan to," Anya promised, tapping her cane on the cobble stone to emphasize her point. "Good luck with your aria."

"Good luck with your search."

Anya smiled some. "Thank you. I'm not sure which of us will need it more," she teased gently, and she thought she saw the first smile play on his lip in days.

"Yes well. With luck at least one of us will be successful," he remarked before slipping back into the shadows of the catacombs.

Anya spent the entire day searching for performance space in the city, with three promising places by lunch and another two found in the afternoon. They would all need some work in order to function as a ballet school, but they were in the heart of the city close enough to the Palais Garnier for the potential of a reputation to be built. There were several dance academies in the area, but Anya didn't doubt her ability to find pupils. She was a great dancer with great references and with an entire season's worth of reputable performances under her belt.

As the sun was beginning to set, Anya couldn't help but reflect on how much better she felt than when the day had begun. All of her anxiety and unease seemed to have vanished with a little fresh air and sunshine. If this was all it took to keep from going stir-crazy, perhaps they could stay in the underground house after all… as long as Erik taught her how to enter and exit it safely.

On her way back to the Rue Scribe gate, Anya's heart sank in her chest at the sight of a dirty little girl begging against the side of the Opera. She was well off the main road, safe from being trampled but also earning very little in her small cup by her feet. The girl could not have been any more than four or five years old, and was covered head to toe in dirt and grime. Anya crouched by the girl as she placed a five franc coin into the cup with a kind smile. "Hello, cherie. What is your name?"

The girl looked up at Anya with large blue eyes, striking in their clarity against her dirty skin. "Elise, Madame. You're the most beautifully lady I've ever seen," the girl breathed and Anya's smile broadened.

"How funny; I was just thinking with a good bath you might be the most beautiful lady _I've_ ever seen," Anya remarked, causing the girl to grin. Her teeth were surprisingly neat for a girl who must have been on the street for a month at least to collect so much dirt. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Elise. My name is Anya."

"The pleasure is mine," Elise said politely, standing to curtsy properly. Anya chuckled at her sweetness and stood to curtsy back.

"Elise, where are your parents?"

The girl's smile immediately left her face and her eyes glued themselves to the cobblestone. "They died, Madame."

"You don't have any other family to care for you?"

"My aunt didn't want me,' Elise said quietly. "She said having a child in the house would drive her customers away. Men don't want to see a child around…"

Anya bit the inside of her cheeks so hard she tasted blood, instantly hating a woman she had never met for turning away a child in need.

"How old are you, Elise?"

"I'll be six in the winter," the girl said proudly, finally taking her eyes off the ground.

"Well, you are quite the little lady then, aren't you?" Anya smiled. Erik was going to hate her for this… "What do you think about having supper with my fiancé and I tonight? A proper lady should have a proper meal."

The girl's face seemed to glow under the dirt and grime. "Can I? Really?"

"I would be honored if you joined us, Elise," Anya promised, though she couldn't say the same for her fiancé.

"I would like that very much, Madame Anya," Elise promised, curtsying deeply. Anya couldn't help but laugh, reaching down to offer the girl her hand. The young girl gathered up her cup with its single five franc coin inside and tucked it into her layers of coats that were all far too large for a six year old girl.

For the first time, the girl seemed to notice Anya's cane and the limp in her walk. "What is wrong with your leg?"

"Oh, it's nothing really," Anya promised, unwilling to tell a six year old girl about her kidnapping out of fear of scaring her. "I'm a dancer. These things happen."

"You're a dancer?" Elise's eyes grew wide once more. "I've always wanted to be a ballerina, ever since I was a little girl. They always looked so beautiful in the pictures…"

"Well aren't we the lucky pair today?" Anya remarked with a smile. "I was out today looking for a place to start a ballet school. How would you like to be my very first student?"

By now the girl's eyes were the size of saucers. "Oh Madame, I couldn't! I would have no way to pay you!"

Anya shrugged off the girl's concern. "I'm sure we could arrange something. Let's not fret about all that now."

The girl nodded, stunned into silence. When Anya stopped outside the Rue Scribe gate, it was only minutes before the sun set. "Now Elise, there is something I have to tell you about my fiancé before he comes to meet us. He is a very private man, so he lives very deep down in the darkness. His house looks just like any other on the inside though, so you mustn't be frightened. I promise you will be safe."

Elise gave the passage a nervous glance, but nodded her agreement. "I'll try, Madame."

"Good. And another thing. You mustn't ask him about his mask. Try and forget he even has it, if you can. He's more of a gentleman than most of the men I've met in Paris, when you don't let his looks get in the way. He's very concerned about them, you see."

"I would have thought someone as beautiful as you was married to a prince!"

Anya chuckled. "We're not married just yet, but he is a regular prince charming when he wants to be," Anya promised, though the analogy was lost on the girl, who could not understand how a man who wore a mask could be a prince.

Suddenly a voice rang unseen from the darkness and the gate swung open unbidden. "Anya, a word?"

Anya looked to the darkness with a small frown before crouching before the girl. "Wait right here for me, I'll be back in a few minutes," she promised, and Elise nodded her understanding. Carefully Anya moved into the catacombs, finding Erik only a few steps down, just out of view of the street.

"What on earth are you doing with a street rat?"

"She was begging by the Opera, Erik, I couldn't just leave her there. She's only six for Christ sake-"

"I don't care how old she is, she is not coming into my house!"

"She's joining us for dinner, Erik," Anya told him simply.

"I won't have it!"

"Then you won't have me for dinner either. I'm not letting her go hungry tonight. Besides, she could use a bath and a warm bed."

Erik scowled at Anya deeply. "It is not your house to invite guests into, Anya."

"If we are going to be living together, Erik, it is my house as much as it is yours," Anya glared at him. "If I'm going to be a servant in my own home you will find I am living elsewhere during the duration of our engagement," she remarked, not at all liking the idea of being told who she could and could not have over.

The man's lips pursed tightly beneath the mask. "Fine. One night, and that is all."

Anya smiled and kissed her fiancé soundly. "Thank you, Erik. You may have saved her life for all you know," she remarked, and Erik only waved her off bitterly. Anya returned to the surface and took the young girl's hand once more to guide her through the catacombs.

"Erik, this is Elise. Elise, this is my fiancé, Erik."

Elise curtsied and bowed her head. "Pleasure to meet you, Your Highness." She said, and Anya couldn't help but smile.

"I think she thinks you're a prince," she explained quietly to Erik, who simply blinked. "I'll explain later."

"…the pleasure is mine, Elise," Erik finally answered before moving to the side on which Anya carried her cane to stay as far from the girl as he could.

When finally the trio arrived at the house by the lake, Anya led the girl into the Louise-Phillipe bedroom. "I'm going to give her a bath before dinner," she told her fiancé, who nodded.

"I think that's a wise idea. I would hate to catch the plague because of your charity."

"Ha-ha," Anya said dryly in response before filling the bath and leaving the girl alone to bathe while she washed the little dress that was nearly a full size too small for the girl. When the girl was cleaned to Anya's satisfaction, she couldn't help but admire the child's beauty. She was full cheeked and a little darker than proper from being on the streets, with striking blue eyes against hair that when clean was nearly as white as snow. Anya plaited the girl's hair neatly before helping her into her newly cleaned dress. It was not as clean as Anya would have liked to present to Erik, but she couldn't very well dress the girl in a soaking wet dress just before supper.

The two ladies moved into the dining room, where Erik was setting the table. Anya had made sure to change into Erik's favorite gown, and her heart skipped a beat when he could not help but stare at her a moment longer than he should have at the sight of her in the royal blue dress. Even when he was angry with her, he still had a way of making her feel like a goddess.

"My Love, allow me to introduce our dinner guest, Mademoiselle Elise."

Erik inspected the girl carefully as she curtsied, eyes diverted nervously. "I must admit, you've turned her into a proper little lady," the man conceded, and Elise smiled broadly up at Anya at the indirect praise. Anya smiled back to her and stroked her damp hair assuringly before sitting with the girl and her future husband to dinner.


	25. Chapter 25

Four days after her arrival at the house by the underground lake, Elise watched Erik root through the bedroom of the large room with a coffin in the very center. Anya stepped behind her and fluffed the girl's hair gently. "What are doing, Love?" Anya asked, head tipped curiously.

"I stored my cello in a very inconvenient place."

"I never knew played the cello," Anya remarked, eyeing the coffin uncomfortably. "Why did you store it?"

"I play every instrument in the orchestra and then some," Erik informed her, finally pulling out a large brown leather case. "I stored it to save space when Christine first moved in and never pulled I out again."

Anya watched him with amusion as Erik opened the case like a child opening a gift. Elise looked up at her curiously. "What's a cello?"

"It's a musical instrument. Like a large violin that stands on its end."

"It is God's greatest gift to man," Erik said simply, and Anya chuckled.

"You're not going to make me jealous of a piece of wood and strings now, are you?"

"A piece of wood and strings? Do not speak to me again until you've washed your mouth with soap!" Erik scolded, half-teasingly. "This is one of my most prized possessions."

"Elise, why don't go and practice the stretches I taught you this morning?" Anya suggested, and the girl scampered off to the parlor to practice the fluid movements the Prima Ballerina had taught her. Anya stayed behind, slipping into her fiancé's bedroom.

"Erik? Why haven't you gotten rid of the coffin yet?" Anya asked, leaning against the wall some and eyeing the casket nervously.

"The same reason you haven't gotten rid of the girl," Erik remarked, sitting with the cello between his knees and beginning to play a stunningly rich melody as though it simply flowed from his fingers.

Anya couldn't help but feel a small twinge of jealousy at the way he caressed the strings, but quickly shook it off; jealous of an instrument! Ha! "You know I've been looking for a home for her," Anya frowned.

"Not as hard as you could be."

"I'm not going to just leave the poor girl in a basket and send her down the Seine!"

"She's fed, she's clothed, she's bathed, what more do you want for a common street rat?"

"A loving home isn't too much to ask for."

"I don't see why you have to be the one to find it for her," Erik stated plainly, stopping his playing abruptly. Anya's frown deepened.

"You really don't feel a twinge of pity for her at all, do you?"

"Not in the least," Erik answered, putting the bow aside.

"I cannot believe you! I thought you of all people would be able to empathize the smallest bit with an unloved child."

Erik strode up to his fiancé challengingly. "No one shed a single tear for me, why should I be expected to feel any bit of pity for her?"

Anya gave him a disbelieving look. "I have shed tears for you, you stupid man. That's what this is about. You resent her!"

"Yes, Anya, I resent her deeply," Erik admitted with a growled. "Why should she lead any better a life than I? What has she done deserving of a better life? Is it simply because she is beautiful? Does that really make her more deserving?"

With steady hands, Anya reached her hands up to Erik's face, carefully removing his mask. Erik's entire demeanor seemed to change. Normally he was so regal, so strong… now he seemed like a self conscious child being scolded by his mother. With soft hands Anya cupped his face, and carefully she pulled his head down to meet her lips.

"I love you, Erik. And I'm sorry your life had to be so difficult. Every day I wish I could have met you ten, even fifteen years ago… But My Love, we cannot change the past. We can only put the past behind us and do our best with what we have in the moment. In the moment I have you. I am happy with that… why can't you be happy just having me?"

"I am happy having you," he promised, his breath little more than a pious whisper.

"Then why are you so resentful of a six year old girl, Erik? Why do you insist on dwelling in the past?"

"You… you would make a wonderful mother. My mother-"

"Your mother was a bitch!" Anya spat, more passionately than she had intended. "Any woman who could treat a child the way she treated you is guaranteed a place in hell's fires as far as I am concerned."

Erik opened his mouth as if to argue, and Anya kissed him to silence him. "You're an amazing man, Erik. I look forward to the day when I will be your wife."

There was a long moment of silence in which Erik held his fiancé, breathing in her smell. What a remarkable woman she was. So passionate, so loving. She had put up with all of his doubts, all of his eccentricities. She had not only tolerated them, she had loved them. It was true… he had been jealous of Elise. In some sick, oedipal way… Erik had wanted to be her. He longed for the mother Anya was to the girl she had only known for days. In a quiet moment of thought, Erik realized the only way he would ever be free of his strange jealousy. "…I want you to be the mother of my children, Anya."

Anya was so taken aback her mouth hung open for a long moment as she struggled for words. "I… You.. _what_?"

"Madame Anya, I'm finished," the girl called from the parlor, startling Anya from her stunned silence as she quickly handed Erik back his mask and left the room.

"That's wonderful, Elise. Why don't you help me make lunch?"

"Anya-" Erik began as Anya ushered the girl into the kitchen and began gathering vegetables. The man followed her into the kitchen once his mask was tied tightly to his face. "Anya I never wanted a child until-"

"Out," Anya snapped, pointing outside the kitchen, Erik purses his lips and obeyed. Anya set the girl to cleaning potatoes while she followed her fiancé out of the kitchen. When they were out of earshot of the girl, Erik spoke again.

"I never wanted children until I saw you mother Elise… I need you to mother my children, Anya. I want to see that glow you have when nurturing Elise light up your face with my own flesh and blood."

"Erik you know-"

"You were declared barren when you were just a girl, and doctors have been wrong before. You can be re-examined."

Anya shook her head with tears in her eyes. "Erik I slept with my husband every week for ten years, and every month for the five years following that. Only once did I conceive, right after I was married, and even then I miscarried!"

"It's no wonder, as thin and overworked as you were. When was the last time you had your monthly bleeding?"

The woman bit her lip some. "Not for years and years…"

"It's not uncommon for ballerinas to never get their monthly at all. I hear the girls here pattering about it all the time, terrified their pregnant because they have no tell-tale sign every month. Perhaps now with your injury your health will start improving. You'll put on a healthy weight, and who's to say you can't conceive?"

"So now I'm too thin?"

"Anya, don't change the subject-"

"I'm not, Erik, I simply am having a hard time believing you're lecturing me about my health when you have little more meat on your bones than a skeleton!"

"You don't want to have my child," Erik spoke with sudden realization. "It's not that you think you can't, it's that you don't want to."

"Now who's the one changing the subject?" Anya demanded bitterly.

"Do you want to be a mother or don't you?" Erik demanded so harshly Anya gaped a little looking for words.

"I… Of course I do, Erik. So much…" she said quietly, looking towards the kitchen where Elise was carefully cleaning vegetables. "But-"

"But what, Anya? I thought you would be pleased that I want a child, and now you're fighting me!"

"You wouldn't understand, Erik."

Erik glared at her some. "I think I understand perfectly. You're all talk is what you are, damning my mother to Hell when you could do no better at raising a child like me than she did."

"Don't you dare accuse me of such a thing!" Anya snapped more forcefully than Erik had expected her to. "It's just… I don't want to get my hopes up, Erik. I don't know what I would do if we made all these plans to have a baby and the baby never came. Heaven forbid I have another miscarriage! I want to be a mother almost more than anything, especially a mother to your children. I simply don't want to get hurt in the process. And I don't want you to get hurt either."

"What a strange couple we are," Erik remarked. "You had to talk me into having sex, and I'm having to talk you into having a baby."

In spite of her mood, Anya could not help but chuckle at this odd truth. Finally she took a deep breath and made her decision. "All right. I will start trying to put on weight, and I will speak to a physician. But only on two conditions."

Erik raised a brow, and Anya continued. "First, that we not sleep together again until we are wed. On the off chance I am not barren, I do not want to risk conceiving out of wedlock." In most matters, Anya was a fairly practical woman. There were certain things she held superstitions about, and the state of her baby if conceived out of wedlock was one of them.

"And the second?"

"The second is that if I do conceive, we move out of this house and into one out above ground."

The masked man opened his mouth to protest, but Anya held up her hand. "Hear me out, would you? We will stay here until I conceive, which may very well be never. But it isn't right to raise a child away from people, in artificial light. Children need friends and sunlight to grow and thrive."

"I certainly didn't."

"Don't you think you would be better off if you had all that, though? You know as well as anyone the struggles you have with people. You've only got two friends in the world, and I'm the only one of them you see regularly. And that's only because I live with you now."

Erik pursed his lips before speaking. "All right, I accept your conditions."

Anya smiled softly and moved to kiss her fiancé carefully. "It's going to be hard for me not to get my hopes up, you know."

"We'll see what the physician has to say once you're healthy," he said after kissing her back, and Anya nodded her agreement. "It's going to be hard keeping my hands off of you until we're married," Erik purred, and Anya realized they hadn't made love since just before she was kidnapped. And now they would have to wait even longer!

"We could always keep our engagement brief," Anya suggested, and Erik chuckled.

"I think I would go mad if we drew it out for long."

"When is the soonest we could reserve a priest?" She asked, and Erik considered this.

"I don't know how that works, actually," he responded honestly, following Anya back into the kitchen where she took up the knife to begin slicing vegetables for a roast.

"I could start asking when Elise and I go up and talk to another orphanage tomorrow," the woman offered.

"Wonderful. Speak to the Daroga too, to make sure he can serve as our witness."

"What does he do but fuss over you all day?" Anya teased. "I'm sure he'll be free."

Erik held her around the middle and kissed at her neck lovingly. "It's been quite a while… are you so certain about your first condition?" he purred into her neck, and Anya lifted her head for him for only a brief moment before swatting him away.

"You horrible tempter! Yes, I'm quite certain. Now if you wouldn't mind keeping your hands to yourself in front of our company? My goodness, our poor children are going to be scarred for life the way you act sometimes," she remarked quite seriously before smiling to him over her shoulder to let him know she was only teasing.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I've been in a funk all day today so I'm probably not the best judge. I'll let you know in the next chapter if I went back and rewrote this one!


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note:** Well, I'm embarrassed. I uploaded this chapter Saturday night, but just realized I never published it! *facepalm* School is clearly taking a toll on my sanity. Probably no chapter for a few days (on purpose this time), but I'll make sure to double check next time I upload a chapter so this doesn't happen again!

* * *

Finding someone to marry them proved to be more trouble than Anya had expected. Erik had warned her it would be difficult, but she never imagined a church would turn anyone away who desired to be married under God. Between Erik being a masked stranger, Anya never having attended a church in Paris, and their only witness being a Muslim, it took a considerable amount of searching to find a priest who was comfortable marrying them

After over a month of searching, Anya was finally able to employ the priest in the girl's home she had surrendered young Elise to not long prior. The priest had gotten to know her some during her visits to see the girl, and knew the woman was deeply in love with her fiancé before he ever saw the man. Such love should not be kept apart, he decided, and invited the pair to be married in a private service in the home's chapel.

Anya did not wear white, although it seemed to be a tradition in Paris even among the girls Anya knew were not virgins. She was not ashamed of her impurity; she had waited until she was married to bed her first husband, and did not regret a single time she had made love to the man who was soon to become her husband. When she slipped into the room in her lightly champagne colored gown adorned with pale blue lace both Erik and Nadir could not pull their eyes away; she had refused to show either of them the gown, and now it was very clear why.

Erik was certain he was about to marry an angel. It felt sacrilegious to be marrying such a work of art when he himself was so hideous. He was certain it would have felt sacrilegious even if he were the most handsome man to ever walk the earth. Surely he would still not be deserving of this masterpiece, hair pinned in neat waves like dunes of sand by the sea, with her grey-green eyes shining through the veil.

Although Anya knew he would never believe her, she thought that he looked rather handsome standing somewhat uncomfortably in front of the pews of the chapel. His suit was well cut and his frame had begun to fill out nicely since she had first met him, when he had been little more than a living skeleton. Although his face was masked the porcelain looked smart and clean, more like a piece for a masquerade than an unfortunate necessity.

Anya had begun to fill out herself since her injury. On her insistence Erik had removed the splint on her leg, and while she walked with a slight limp she had refused to walk with a cane down the aisle to greet her husband. The leg was somewhat thinner than her good leg from the time of disuse and considerably weaker than it once had been, but the pain was only moderate. The length of her dress hid the unevenness, but hugged her tight enough around her waist and breasts to show that she was gaining a comfortable amount of weight. Erik was pleased about this for more reasons than one. He had always loved her oddly proportioned frame, but now she seemed… softer. More feminine than ever before, with slight curves in her breasts and hips that she had been lacking before. Her proportions had not changed; her legs were still long, as were her arms, her head was still small with full cheeks and her torso was adorned with broad, delicate shoulders. She was quite the same woman, simply gentler and more ethereal in appearance.

The weight gain had also worked wonders on her health, as Erik expected it might. For the first time in over a decade Anya had bled, and though she was cramped and bedridden because of her newfound 'health' there was also considerably more natural color to her cheeks, and a certain added softness to her hair and skin. Her appetite was healthier, her energy increased, and Erik thought she appeared to be generally happier, with more of a glimmer in her eyes than ever before.

Those glimmering grey-green eyes met his when Anya stepped beside him and took his hands before the priest. The thick, jovial man smiled to them and first addressed Nadir.

"Monsieur, I am correct in guessing you are their witness this evening?"

"You are," answered the Daroga, smiling broadly with pride. "And before you ask, I approve of the union whole heartedly."

The priest chuckled. "Very good then," he concluded, before beginning the ceremony. At Erik's request it was brief and simple; Anya knew he was not particularly religious, and he certainly did not have the patience to sit through what could well have been a four hour service even if it was with Anya's hands in his. Anya did not mind either – the sooner they returned home the sooner they could begin their lives together as husband and wife.

After only an hour long service the vows were exchanged, and Anya's voice shook with such happiness she thought she could see a hint of tears in Erik's eyes at her emotion. She couldn't help it. Somehow, this felt different than her first marriage had. She had been fifteen years old, completely enamored with a handsome young artist and surrounded by their friends and family. She and her husband were both rising stars. All Anya could see before them was greatness and happiness… yet this moment was even grander. She was a widow with no career, marrying a masked genius who's mood was as unpredictable as a bolt of lightning and often just as intense, who made his living extorting a theatre to make up for his lack of proper compensation years and thousands of francs before… but she was happier in this moment, with this man than she had ever been with her husband. There was no explanation for it, and as far as Anya was concerned no explanation was needed.

Simple rings were exchanged and when given permission by the priest, Erik lifted her veil as though it were made of spun gold. With no reservations Anya threw her arms around her new husband's neck and kissed him soundly, tears of joy falling freely now. Erik kissed her back just a firmly, and both the priest and Nadir applauded with broad smiles. Husband and wife moved to Nadir, and Anya embraced the man tightly. "Thank you for coming, Nadir!"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," the Daroga promised. "Erik, you are one lucky man. If you do anything to spoil this I will hunt you down until one of us drops dead."

Erik chuckled. "You sound like her father."

"More like the man she ought to have married," Nadir teased, and Anya smacked the Daroga's shoulder gently.

"I married the exact man I ought to have. Many, many years too late, but Fate got in the way," she smiled up to her husband, who kissed her soundly.

"Truer words were never spoken," Nadir promised with a smile, walking with them outside of the chapel and back to the Palais Garnier. "Are you sure you won't let me buy you a room for the night?"

"There's no need, Daroga," Erik promised. "We've been living together for weeks already."

Anya nodded her agreement. "Besides, it's so awkward don't you think? Everyone knows exactly what you're there for."

Nadir chuckled. "I suppose you're right. Well then, when I can figure out what to give the man who has everything for a wedding present, look for it by the set pieces that hide the forest. Congratulations again, to both of you."

Together Erik and Anya walked through the Rue Scribe gate and down through the catacombs before reaching the house by the underground lake. The moment they were in the door the newlyweds began kissing and stroking one another desperately, undressing even as they made their way into bed. Erik had been good and had somehow managed to keep from making love with Anya until their wedding. It had been nearly as difficult as coming off narcotics. Sex was like a drug, one neither of them objected to indulging in as often as they liked.

* * *

Two months after their wedding night, Erik sat on the bed with Anya, helping to stretch out her foot and leg. The woman clenched her teeth through the pain, but did not complain. "It still hurts?" Erik asked, and Anya nodded.

"Terribly. Is it not supposed to anymore?"

"It's impossible to say what it's supposed to be doing, but I would have thought with all the stretching you've been doing the pain might have lessened by now."

Anya shook her head. "Not much. I do feel more flexible though. And I feel as though I'm limping less."

Erik nodded. "I've noticed the same. It hurts more when you stretch it like this than when you walk?" Anya nodded her response. "Well, that's something then," he remarked, knowing slow progress was better than none at all. Patting her foot fondly, Erik moved out of the bed. "I have a gift for you. Several, in fact."

The woman couldn't help but smile. "Do you really? What's the occasion?"

"No occasion," Erik promised. "Simply things a wife deserves from her husband."

"I may have something for you too," Anya remarked, and Erik raised a brow.

"You 'may'?"

"I'll explain in a minute, now I'm excited to see what it is you've gotten me," she promised with a grin, and Erik took her hand to lead her out of the Louise-Phillipe room to the door of his bedroom.

The door was unlocked and opened easily when Erik turned the handle and pushed forward. The room beyond was completely different than it had been the last time Anya had seen it, so much so it caught her breath in her throat. The bedroom seemed so much larger than it had before with a casket suffocating it in the middle of the room. Now there was a large, elegant four-post bed against the back wall matching Erik's work desk where it sat across from the organ on the other end of the room. A large bookshelf with glass doors held pages and pages of neatly organized scores Anya was sure Erik had composed all himself, as often as he worked in here. A large Persian rug ornamented the floor, with lamps on side tables lighting the room pleasantly. It seemed for all intents and purposes like a perfectly lovely master suite in a perfectly lovely Parisian home.

"Oh Erik, it's beautiful! How on earth did you manage to put such a bed in here without my noticing?" She demanded, and Erik chuckled.

"In bits and pieces while you were out. I worked on it a little bit every day after I took you up to the market."

"While you were supposedly working?" Anya asked with a raised brow, and the man nodded.

"Precisely. And you never suspected a thing, did you?"

The woman shook her head. "Not at all! I'm going to miss the Louise-Phillipe room, though. It was beginning to feel rather homey."

"I thought if we're eventually successful in having a child the Louise-Phillipe room would be more suitable for the child than where I work," Erik explained, and Anya nodded her agreement. "On the desk is your second gift," the man told her, and Anya wandered over to his work desk with a smile, picking up the piece of paper that was neatly laid out and reading it aloud.

"'This document entitles Monsieur and Madame Erik Rameau to the property located at 471A Rue Vernier' – Oh my God, you bought a studio!" She exclaimed, running to him in spite of her week leg and leaping into his arms to kiss him soundly. "Rue Vernier was my favorite one, but the landlord said it was already taken!"

"I knew how much you liked the space, so I bought it off the man who purchased it for twice the price. A dance studio better suites the neighborhood than a hat shop anyway, if I may say so," Erik remarked, and Anya kissed her husband again deeply.

"You shouldn't have, Erik! There are other spaces fit for a studio-"

"None like that one," Erik promised. "You have good taste. The floor was solid, walls are large enough and sturdy enough for good mirrors and bars, the foot traffic there is good but not overwhelming. It really is in the perfect place."

Anya smiled. "My gift for you isn't nearly as thoughtful," she remarked, though the small smile she wore showed she was still proud of it.

"Well, what is it then?" Erik pried – it was not often at all that he received gifts, and the ones Anya got him at the market from time to time were all wonderfully sweet little tokens of affection.

The woman stood firmly on her feet and took Erik's hand, guiding it carefully to her belly with a small, almost secret smile. It only took Erik a moment to catch the enormous meaning of the gesture. His eyes widened immensely, and immediately Anya was swept up into a tight and loving embrace. "You're pregnant! How do you know?"

"I missed my monthly even though I've been putting on weight, so I went to see Doctor le Blanc again to see why it was. He told me I'm expecting sometime in late January," Any explained with a broad smile. "Are you pleased?"

"Pleased? Anya my gifts to you pale in comparison! I am beyond pleased," he promised, kissing her deeply as Anya melted into his embrace.


	27. Chapter 27

"Erik, we had a deal!" Anya told her husband firmly. Now six months pregnant, the woman was becoming anxious about their living situation. "I won't raise a baby in a cellar!"

"I can't leave, Anya," Erik explained. "If we leave, where will we go? How will we survive? Our income is from the Opera- Where are you going?" He demanded as Anya stood and moved past him with her lips pursed tight.

"To the bathroom, or do I have to ask you for permission to go there too?" the woman sneered some.

"You will not talk to me so rudely in my own house!"

Anya turned on her heel and glared at him. "This isn't a house, Erik, it's a God damned prison! I'm going mad stuck in here all day long! I need open space and _sunlight_. I don't know how you survive."

"You are unhappy here," Erik said plainly, the hurt evident in his voice. With a small frown Anya moved to embrace him, but her husband pushed her aside and moved into the kitchen.

"I am not unhappy with _you_, My Love. You are the most wonderful husband a woman could ask for. And you'll be an equally wonderful father. But this place is a gilded cage. There are pretty things here and it's safe and peaceful, but it is surrounded by darkness and ugliness. I need you to lead me an hour through the catacombs in order to see the sun and to visit the lovely school we are making," she told him with a small frown.

"What will we do for an income, Anya?"

"Don't pretend that is an excuse, Erik. You and I both know you make far more than you spend every month, I'm certain you have a considerable amount of savings. You could compose if we needed the extra income. Your music is wonderful, I'm sure you would have buyers."

"Would you buy music from a man in a mask?" Erik demanded, pouring a glass of wine before leaning against the counter.

"Who cares who writes the music so long as it is brilliant? Which it is, by the way. Your works put Mozart and Bach to shame. And if you're so afraid, I can go into the market and sell it for you. Besides, there will be the income from the school."

"I thought you intended to teach for free?"

"I intend to teach the disadvantaged for free," Anya corrected. "I promised little Elise dance lessons and I intend to keep my promise. People who can pay for lessons will pay."

Erik hummed and sipped at his wine while Anya tried very hard not scowl as she moved back towards the restroom again. If there was one thing she loathed it was a broken promise.

When Erik finally came out of the kitchen, Anya was seated in a chair by the fireplace stitching a quilt out of fabric she had purchased on her last trip to the market, nearly a week ago. Erik had been too busy with his latest composition to take her since.

"Would you like to go up?" Erik offered, sitting in the chair across from her. Anya didn't look up from her needle work.

"Not today," she said, and Erik could not help but roll his eyes.

"You say you're trapped in a gilded cage, but when I offer to let you out you refuse!"

"The baby's been fussing all morning, my back is too sore for the trip," The woman explained with forced patience.

Erik frowned some, immediately feeling sorry for being so harsh with her. "Has she?"

"Yes, and last night too. But if you could find the time tomorrow, I would like to go up then. If we're not going to move I suppose it's time for me to start looking for a crib and whatnot to bring down here," she explained. Anya had been holding off on buying anything for the baby since it would be difficult enough to move all of their possessions above ground. She hadn't wanted to add to the labor.

Pursing his lips some under the mask, Erik was silent for a long moment. "All right."

"Thank you, Love."

"That isn't what I meant. I made a promise, I will honor it."

Anya finally looked up from her stitching. "We can move?"

The man nodded. "We can move. The flat I collect mail from should do unless our little family gets any larger."

Putting aside her needlework, Anya moved into her husband's lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Erik. This means a lot to me. And it will mean a lot to the baby, I promise you," she said, leaning her head against his chest. "I had a horrible nightmare last night. I think she knows; she doesn't normally fuss like this."

Erik rested a hand on his wife's swollen belly, and sure enough he could feel the tiny life fluttering restlessly inside. "You should have told me. I could have made something to help you sleep."

"It didn't wake me. It only made my sleep restless… In the dream we had a little girl. You and I were making love in our room, and she got out of her crib. She was very curious and found her way out into the catacombs. We never found her… I think all this is her way of promising me she's still here," Anya told him softly, and Erik kissed his wife's head sweetly.

"Such a thing is impossible, Anya. You don't even know how to open the doors to the outside."

The woman nodded. "I know. But our child will be brilliant, Erik. How can she not be, with you as her father. What if she finds her way into the lake before she can swim…"

"She won't because we won't be living here," Erik promised, and Anya sighed some into his chest in quiet relief.

"Thank you, Erik. It won't be so difficult, you'll see. And now Nadir will be able to visit us more often. I know you'd like that even if you do grumble about him," she smiled, and Erik harrumphed quietly.

"Knowing him he would let himself in while we're just about ready to make love!"

Anya laughed pleasantly and nodded. "Yes, he does have wretched timing doesn't he? I suppose we'll have to assign him visiting hours and make sure we're decent in them. I'm sure he'll make an excellent uncle. He could watch the baby while we go on walks in the park," she mused.

"I don't believe we'll be going on very many walks in the park, I'm afraid."

Anya looked up to her husband. "And why not? Too ashamed to be seen in a park with a lame ballerina?"

"Too ashamed to be seen in a park with the remnants of a face. Even your remarkable beauty does not make it any less shameful."

"You are accompanying me on walks whether you like it or not, Husband," Anya told him firmly. "They won't be so bad as you think, you'll see. I've seen far stranger men than you wandering around Paris."

Erik looked to her amused. "Oh have you?"

"Absolutely. Drunkards, street performers. Why I once even saw a gentleman accosted by a _man_ of the night! I didn't even know such a thing existed, I've only ever seen women…"

The masked man chuckled. "Yes, I suppose there are plenty of oddities in Paris. Very well, we will go on walks. But only in the early morning or late evening when my fellow freaks are on display."

"Fair enough," smiled Anya before wincing some. "What is it you want, Malyshka?" The woman asked her belly, adjusting herself in her husband's lap and stroking the growing bulge.

"What a lovely little name," Erik remarked, adjusting his hold on his wife as she moved.

"What is?"

"Malyshka. It means "little one" doesn't it?"

Anya nodded. "It does. It was what my mother used to call my sister and I before she passed away."

"I think it would be a lovely name for our daughter," Erik remarked, and Anya smiled tracing patterns in her belly.

"Do you think so? But what if it's a boy?"

"You seem certain it's going to be a girl."

The woman smiled to him. "I'm rather confident. But I've been wrong before. I thought you were a monster, and see how wrong I was? You're an absolute Angel," she praised so sweetly Erik knew she was after something.

"All right, out with it. What is it you want?"

Anya's smile turned into a full grin. "Would you massage my back? It aches terribly with Malyshka dancing around like she is."

"All right, get into bed and I'll warm some oil," he told her, and Anya obeyed more than willingly. Erik moved into the kitchen to fetch the bottle of olive oil he kept for cooking, and made a note to himself to search for something more fragrant for her in case the need ever came up again. Olive oil had a lovely fruity smell to it, but Erik thought almond or rose oil would suit her better.

Anya sat on the bed as it was now impossible to lay flat on her stomach without heart wrenching concern for suffocating the tiny life inside of her. Erik pulled a chair close to the edge of the bed and watched with unabashed wonder as his wife slipped out of her dress and sat with her back to him, pulling her long sandy hair away from her back to keep it off of his canvas. Erik knew if there was ever a day he was not stunned by the beauty of his wife the end of the world would be close at hand. Six months pregnant, with slightly swollen breasts and an ever growing belly, Anya was still a work of art. Perhaps now more than ever, with such soft hair and supple skin.

Erik worked at her back for nearly an hour as she hummed pleasantly under his touch. "Thank you, Love. You are so wonderful to me," Anya smiled, turning to kiss her husband sweetly before laying down and patting the place beside her. Erik moved into the bed, allowing his still naked wife to curl against him languidly. "What do you think she's going to be like, our Malyshka?"

Erik stroked his wife's hair absently as he thought. Tall like me, with peculiarly long legs and arms like you. Light hair like yours, and hopefully your eyes as well. They are so beautiful," he told her, turning to look into those strange yet wonderful grey-green orbs. "She'll be a dancer, I imagine. Perhaps also a violinist or a singer, to make sure she is well rounded. She will be a woman other women want to be, and one men want to be with, as you are."

Against his side, Anya chuckled some. "I was never that woman, but my sister was so I suppose it's in the family somewhere," suddenly Anya's face changed, and she appeared delightfully devious.

"What is going on in that lovely head of yours," Erik pried curiously.

"I was just imagining the looks on everyone's faces if I were to tell them I was married to the Opera Ghost. Oh, may I Erik? Everyone at the theatre suspected you were courting me, won't they be surprised to find we're married!"

Erik smiled broadly. "You may tell them only if I may watch the looks on their faces as well! How shocked they will be to find out how incredibly right they were!"

Suddenly a small bell chimed, and Erik's figure changed from relaxed to alert in a moment. "Someone is at the lake," he told her, and Anya sat up as he moved from the bed.

"Surely it's only Nadir…"

"Better safe than sorry," Erik explained, tucking a thin rope Anya had once heard him call the Punjab Lasso into his belt. "Get dressed and wait for me by the door," he commanded and Anya moved to obey as Erik slipped out of the house by the lake.

When Erik did not return a full hour later, Anya began to grow nervous. Two hours later, she began to panic. As the third hour drew to a close the small sound of a bell chimed again, Anya stood from where she had retreated by the fire to clam her nerves and immediately moved to the door to wait for what she hoped would be the soon arrival of her husband. After several minutes the door opened and Erik stepped into the house once again. Anya moved into his arms forcefully, trying her very best not to cry in relief. Her head spun at the heavy smell of smoke on his jacket.

"…Have you been smoking?"

Anya had not even noticed Nadir enter the room until he spoke. "Your husband was not smoking, Madame, I can assure you."

The woman's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "But you smell-"

"There was a fire," Erik told her, sadness in his voice. "The whole block went up in flames."

"…The school?"

Erik nodded. "It all burned to the ground. Everything is gone. I'm so sorry My Love."

The school had been Anya's project for the past six months. All of the work that had been done on the large empty space she had done with her own two hands except for the work she was afraid may hurt the baby. She had selected and fitted mirrors from wall to wall and raised them with the help of her husband, she had measured and mounted a bar against the mirrors with immense precision, she had hand selected the wood for the floors and days on her hands and knees polishing them herself once the floor was laid. Hearing that six months of love and labor had vanished in ashes was simply heartbreaking.

"We can find a new space," Erik promised, and Anya nodded.

"I know. It's just… all that money and work. With the baby coming and now moving… on top of this? Can we-"

"We can afford It. Don't fret, Anya. You were right about my savings being substantial. We simply won't have the income from the school for longer than expected."

Anya nodded, although she was not much comforted. Three months before the birth of their daughter, something so large as a fire seemed like something of a sign. Saying a private prayer that this would not be the case, Anya moved into the kitchen to make her husband and their weary guest a meal and tea.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note:** Man alive, sorry this has been so long in coming! This chapter gave me a ton of trouble, but here it is! I'll try and be more regular about posting, promise!

* * *

Anya looked around the small house and smiled with pride. In two weeks she had transformed the dusty, unused house into a home similar in style to the house by the underground lake. She knew her husband was not looking forward to moving into such a public place and would be spending most of his time indoors, and wanted to make the home as familiar and comfortable to him as possible.

With the Daroga's help, the house was now furnished and decorated in an odd but lovely mixture of European and Eastern styles Erik was so fond of. A Persian rug adorned the floor, tapestries and paintings graced the walls, and a new, full sized piano forte stood proudly in near the wall where it could best be viewed and heard. One of the two bedrooms was fitted with a large bed with an even more luxurious mattress than the one she and Erik slept on, while the other contained a prim little bassinet, soft and neatly stitched.

The most difficult part of the transformation had been keeping it all a secret from Erik. She still needed to be escorted to the surface after all, and would need an excuse to go out at least every other day. Luckily, the unfortunate fire that had taken the school provided just such an opportunity.

The day after the fire had completely destroyed what they had been working so hard on for months, Nadir arrived at the house by the underground lake with interesting news – the police suspected arson, and wished to speak to all the owners of businesses that had been lost in the fire. Erik and Anya had both agreed it would be best if she went to speak with the police, considering he was wanted for the crimes he had committed as the Opera Ghost for so many years.

Anya had been nervous about meeting with the police. A woman had reason to be afraid of the police in Russia, even if she was married and with child. Erik and Nadir had both promised her there was little to be worried about, but it was only when the Daroga had agreed to stay with her while she met with the police that she had agreed to go at all. When all was said and done, she was glad she went – the fire had been started intentionally, and the young man responsible had been caught and was from a wealthy enough family to pay the damages.

"How wonderful!" Exclaimed the Daroga as soon as they left the police station, money in hand. "The school will be opened later than you had anticipated, but at least it will still be opened! You must be thrilled."

"I am, Nadir, but not for the reasons you think. You mustn't tell Erik about the money."

The Daroga raised a brow at her. "But Madame-"

Quickly Anya had explained about her plan for the house as a surprise to Erik. "This money combined with my savings from the ballet would make such a wonderful home, and give us plenty to live off of until Erik is comfortable enough to look for work. I will rest easier knowing he does not resent me for asking him to move."

She had been right. The money had been more than enough to pay for the furnishings and accent pieces for the modest home as well as a crib, blankets, and clothes for the little life growing inside her. The remaining money was enough to begin reconstruction of the school, but Anya decided against it; she would have no time to run a school with a new baby and her husband to take care of. And what was more, her leg still ached when she stood for too long, or even when the weather became too cold. How could she expect to teach children to dance beautifully when she could hardly walk with grace?

The clock on the wall chimed five, and Anya was immediately snapped out of her reverie. Erik would be waiting for her at the gate of the Rue Scribe by now, and she was still nearly a quarter hour's walk away. Gathering up her skirts Anya moved quickly out of the house, being sure to lock the door behind her and tuck the key into her breast. She had obtained the key from the bookshelf after discovering Erik's hiding place for in an envelope placed neatly between the pages of a well worn copy of La Belle et la Bête and made a copy of it as soon as she got the chance. Now that the house was complete, she wouldn't have to hide the key for much longer.

"Madame Chekov! My goodness, is that you?" Exclaimed a familiar voice from behind Anya as she hurried down the street past the Palais Garnier. The woman froze and paused a moment before turning and painting on her most charming smile.

"Monsieur Moncharmin! What a pleasant surprise."

"You weren't about to walk straight by us without so much as saying hello?" Asked the man, opening his arms welcomingly before giving a look of surprise to the bulge in her belly. "My goodness! I suppose it isn't Madame Chekov anymore, now is it? Who's the lucky man?"

Anya allowed herself to smile more genuinely. "No it isn't. You wouldn't know him, I'm afraid."

"Don't be so sure! I know nearly everyone in Paris."

"He's only a composer, Monsieur, not one to travel in your circle. But if you must know, his name is Erik Rameau."

"You were right, I've never heard of him. Well clearly he is treating you well, you look wonderful. How is your leg?"

"Much better Monsieur, thank you for asking," She said, surprised at how genuine he sounded.

"Good, good. We've been trying to get in touch with you actually, Madame Che- Madame Rameau."

Anya quirked a brow. "What about?"

"Two things actually. For one we have some of your post. You've gotten several letters postmarked from St. Petersberg."

The woman tilted her head curiously. "Really? How strange. I can get them now if that would be all right."

"Of course. Come inside, I put them aside in the office for you," Moncharmin insisted, offering his arm to help her up the stairs. Anya took it gratefully and moved inside with the manager towards his office. Things hadn't changed much, she was pleased to see. She hadn't realized how much she had missed the theatre until stepping inside the marble palace.

"Ah, here they are," Moncharmin exclaimed, handing the woman a small bundle of letters from inside his desk. "There ought to be three there, if you're missing one let me know and I'll look again."

"Thank you, Monsieur Moncharmin. Monsieur, if you don't mind my asking what else it is you wanted to speak to me about? My husband was expecting me nearly half an hour ago, and he does worry," she explained as Moncharmin sat at his desk.

"Well, I was hoping to take some more time and talk it over with you while Richard was present, but if you must go – our ballet mistress is very ill. One of the primas has taken over her position for the meanwhile, but we need someone with more experience to choreograph the dances and work with the girls, someone without a stake in it themselves. We may be forced to fire one of the primas for sabotaging one of the younger girls, it is becoming ludicrous."

Anya gaped some. "You want me to be the ballet mistress? My leg is stiff, and I'm having a baby in a matter of weeks -"

"You have a gift, Madame Rameau; I can't think of anyone better. Bring the baby with you, get the little one dancing early. As for your leg, we're not asking you to dance in the ballet, just keep these girls in line, teach them the choreography, do a little choreographing of your own. You can have all the time off you need when the baby comes and the girls know they'll have someone to answer to eventually," Moncharmin explained, leaning back. "Talk it over with your husband. If he's only a composer it sounds to me like the added income would be appreciated."

Anya nodded some, clearly thinking hard about the offer. "I am flattered, Monsieur Moncharmin. Truly. I will speak to him about it, thank you."

Leaving the Palais Garnier at a much slower pace than she had first walked by, Anya traced small patterns in her belly pensively. So much good had come from the burning of the school, perhaps it wasn't such an ominous sign as she had thought after all. As she approached the gate at the Rue Scribe, her husband's figure loomed behind the gate.

"Where the hell have you been? You were due back forty five minutes ago," Erik scolded, letting her inside the gate.

"I know, Erik. I'm sorry. I was at the market and lost track of the time, then Monsieur Moncharmin saw me walking and wanted to speak to me. Did you know –"

"You've been coming back empty handed from the market quite often," Erik remarked, interrupting her and causing Anya to frown.

"I window shop. I know we can't afford to buy much if we're going to repair the school."

"Who is it you're seeing, Anya?" The masked man demanded, causing Anya's jaw to drop.

"Excuse me?" She asked, hardly more than a stunned whisper. There was no possible way she was hearing him correctly.

"Who are you seeing?" He said again, voice dripping with sarcasm as he spoke slowly and intentionally to make sure she understood him.

Anya stared at him in utter disbelieve. "You think I'm _cheating_ on you? Erik we're married, we have a baby on the way, a beautiful house."

"Is the baby mine?" Erik insisted, and Anya gasped audibly at the insult before letting her hand fly. She struck his cheek and knocked the mask to the ground. Erik growled with rage and grabbed her wrist before she could fully pull away and pulled her as close to him as her bulging belly will allow. "IS THE BABY MINE?" he barked ferociously.

Ripping out of her husband's grasp, Anya flung her arms around her belly and backed away from him. "Don't _touch_ me like that!" She yelped.

"Is the baby mine, Anya, yes or no?" Erik seethed, stalking towards her again as she backed away.

"Of course she's yours, you monster!" Anya declared, shoving at him firmly and moving back towards the gate and letting herself back out onto the street. She turned back briefly and pulled the key out from her breasts and pulling it over her neck, tossing it at her husband's feet. "That's for you."

"The key to your lover's house? How considerate." Erik spat, and Anya nodded.

"That it is, Erik. You caught me," she snarled sarcastically. "I'm every bit the whore you want me to be. Enjoy your revenge."

Erik was too surprised by her tone to follow her as she left with the small stack of letters still in hand. He stooped over to pick up the key and regarded it carefully. It looked oddly familiar, but he couldn't quite place its resemblance. Surely it was just a similarity all keys held. It was not until he returned alone to the house by the underground lake that the nagging feeling of similarity betrayed its origin. On the top shelf of the bookshelf sat La Belle et la Bête. Inside the book rested an envelope, which now had a fold on it which Erik did not recognize. The key inside was identical to the one that had once been around his wife's neck, and Erik's heart dropped in his chest at the realization.


	29. Chapter 29

"Madame Rameau, I simply could not eat another bite," Nadir insisted as Anya took his bowl and refilled it from the large pot of stew. "It's a wonder your husband is not twice his size by now if you feed him like this all the time."

"He's too busy trying to fatten me up for me to feed him like this," Anya explained, painting on a smile. It had been nearly a week since her fight with Erik, and there was still no sign of him. She had thought after this long Erik would finally have put aside his pride and come to apologize for his behavior.

Nadir seemed to read her thoughts. "Your husband is a proud man, Anya. Perhaps it would be best if you went to him and goaded him into apologizing. Sometimes he needs a little pressure."

"Monsieur Khan, I am very, very pregnant. I am in no position to attempt to go down into the cellars on my own. And besides, I am not about to let him talk me into apologizing for something I did not do. I've been married to that man for very nearly a year and in love with him for longer than that and he is still constantly paranoid that I am going to leave him," Anya lamented, ladling more stew into her bowl and sitting across from the old man with eyes of jade. "You are so good to him, Nadir. How do you do it?"

The man shook his head some in amusement. "It is not easy, believe me. But the man had had a difficult life, to say the least. Sometimes he is a difficult person to be around because of it, but other times it has made him into a remarkably clever and insightful human being."

Anya nodded some in agreement. "I suppose so. I do love him. He knows that, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does, Anya," Nadir promised, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his, patting it reassuringly. "He simply has a strange way of showing it at times. Now tell me, what was in those letters you read every night?"

The woman's eyes widened some in surprise. "You saw that?"

"No. But Darius can't keep a secret to save his life," Nadir chuckled. "He said he's seen you fretting over them every night since you came here. What are they?"

Anya frowned and hung her head some, stirring around the stew in its bowl. "They were from my sister, in St. Petersburg. The first letter was a wedding invitation. The next was written by her here in Paris. She saw me perform Giselle, while she was on her honeymoon. She had wanted to visit after the show, but she was afraid I still held a grudge."

"Why would she think you held a grudge? You are one of the most forgiving people I have ever met, to be married to Erik."

"…She was sleeping with my last husband, before he died. I told her I would never forgive her for what she did to my marriage. It was the last thing I ever said to her," Anya explained with a frown.

"Well, you should write her. Perhaps she can come back to Paris in time for the birth of her lovely niece, and you can make amends."

Anya shook her head. "I couldn't possibly. It would be so out of the blue. Besides, even if she has changed, we both have new lives now. She has a husband, I'm having a baby…"

Erik's voice was smooth, but so sudden and unexpected that it caused both the Persian and his guest to jump visibly. "People never change."

"Erik!" Exclaimed Anya, clutching at her chest trying to catch her breath. "Why didn't you knock?"

"Locked doors rarely apply to your husband, Madame Rameau," Nadir explained before gesturing to one of the chairs. "Sit, my friend. Your wife made a wonderful dinner, and there's plenty left."

"No thank you, Daroga. Anya, if I might speak to you a moment when you're through?"

Anya stood as gracefully as she could being with child, and moved past her husband into the sitting room. Erik followed her into the room, closing the door to the dining room behind him to grant them some semblance of privacy. Anya stood with her arms crossed in the still-narrow slit between her belly and breasts, looking at her husband expectantly.

"I saw the flat," Erik said. "You did a remarkable job."

"Thank you. I thought it would make the move easier for you."

"You got the money from the police?"

The woman nodded some. "Well, from the parents of the young man responsible," Anya clarified. "They reimbursed everyone whose property was damaged. I think I might have been able to get more from them, but I didn't want to fight it."

"Why didn't you put the money back into the property?" The masked man asked as Anya sat in one of the plush oriental chairs.

"I didn't want to start our lives together with you resenting me for making us move. Besides, it worked out for the best. I never got a chance to tell you, but one of the reasons I was so late in meeting you was that I was offered a job. I would have been late anyway, but only by a few minutes. I really did lose track of time, just not at the market."

Erik raised a brow under the porcelain mask. "A job doing what?"

Anya smiled some to herself. "As the ballet mistress at the Palais Garnier. Can you imagine? A school would be wonderful and all, but to the ballet mistress at such a prominent ballet company in _Paris_ of all places? This is the art capitol of the world."

"It is quite an honor, yes," Erik agreed. "You must be pleased."

"I am. But I hope that's not all you came to talk about," Anya pried, looking up at her husband expectantly.

Erik diverted his eyes and sat down in one of the chairs across from Anya. Anya stroked her belly absently, musing that he somehow seemed like a child in that moment, awaiting judgment.

"I am sorry I accused you of seeing other men. You have experience being in a marriage. This is still very new to me. The last woman I loved never loved me at all. She left with prince charming and is living happily ever after. You mean so much more to me than she ever did, I simply… am more guarded than I ought to be. A leopard can't change his spots, as they say."

With a small frown, Anya moved into her husband's lap and stroked his masked cheek. "You already have changed your spots, Erik. More than you can see, even if it isn't as much as I would like. I will try and be patient with you, but please try and be rational before you lash out at me, hm?" She asked, kissing the cool porcelain.

"I will try my best," Erik promised, kissing her tenderly.

"And you will _not_ push me again, or I swear on my life I will take the baby and you will never see me again."

"Of course, of course. I never should have done so in the first place, I have no excuse for that."

"Good," Anya said, kissing him again. "My sister wrote to me."

"The one who slept with your husband? I thought you said you had severed ties with her."

Anya nodded. "I did."

"How did she know where to write you after all this time?" Erik asked, honestly curious. Anya thought it was a decent improvement over the jealous questioning he had been prone to of late.

"She came to Paris on her honeymoon and saw me dance Giselle. She's apparently taken to sleeping with her own husband these days, as it turns out," she said, dryly.

Erik kissed his wife's forehead. "Let's go home."

Anya frowned deeply at all the strange looks they received walking arm in arm down the streets of Paris. Erik kept the hood of his cloak up, shadowing the majority of his face. It earned him fewer double takes than she suspected the mask might have, but still more than she would have liked.

"This is why you didn't want to move up here, isn't it?"

"The whispers and stares? Yes. I have ways to minimize it. A hood, a false nose, things of that nature."

"But nothing stops it completely?" Anya asked, resting her head on his shoulder as they walked up to the door.

"No," Erik said with carefully veiled sadness, pulling a key out of his coat to let them inside. Anya smiled broadly as soon as the door was opened. The entire flat was covered in flowers of every shape, size, and color, as well as several new paintings gracing the walls.

"Oh Erik, it's beautiful."

"You did most of the work. I simply bought the flowers."

"They add quite a bit," Anya promised. "Did you see everything I did? All the furniture is new, and the bassinet in the baby's room is lined with real cotton –"

Erik chuckled some and kissed her forehead. "I saw everything, Anya. You did a wonderful job."

Anya smiled and flushed. "Sorry. I'm just excited is all. I still can't believe we're having a baby."

"I know. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was afraid it had," he admitted, hanging up his cloak on a coat rack nearest the door.

"You don't need to be," Anya promised. "I'm not the sort of woman to stray, Erik. Even when Luca was a right ass I never –"

Erik silenced her with a kiss. "That isn't what I meant. I have a tendency towards destroying the things I care most about in my life," he explained, moving into the kitchen. "I've done more than enough to chase you back to Russia or to America, and no one would blame you."

"Stop fretting, Erik. We're married. We're having a baby. I never imagined this life for myself, and I'm sure you didn't either. Let's just try and enjoy it, shall we? Sit and try the piano, I'll pour you a drink," she offered, and Erik obediently sat at the piano.

"How much did you pay for this?" He asked, feeling the weight of the keys. "The keys are real ivory."

"What else would they be?"

"Many less expensive pianos have wooden keys. They're far lighter," Erik explained.

"Well it was fairly pricey. More so than the sofa, less so than the rug. It really is from Persia you know, Monsieur Khan helped me get it."

Erik smiled and played several simple scales. "Well I will have to thank him, it is a lovely rug. What would you like to hear?"

"An original," Anya said with a smile, returning from the kitchen with a glass of wine for him, placing it on a coaster upon the piano forte to keep from ruining the expensive instrument.

"An original? Hm. Well, I gave up on the Opera I was attempting."

"There's a shame," Anya frowned. "Was the libretto really that much trouble?"

"Yes. And really the plot is overdone, it would never sell. I decided to write a ballet instead."

Anya grinned from ear to ear, sitting at the writing desk on the other end of the room. "Are you really? Erik that's wonderful!"

"I was hoping you would write the story, and choreograph it."

"Really? You want me to help you write a ballet?" Anya asked, not quite sure she believed him. Her husband had never been the sort to work well with others as far as she knew.

"Who better? I've already written the overture, would you like to hear it?"

The woman nodded eagerly. "Yes, of course!"

Erik began to play a lovely melody that made Anya sway in her seat just listening to it. "Erik, it's wonderful. It reminds me of a fairytale from home, the Frog Princess."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the tale."

"Well, I'm a wretched story teller, and of course every family has their own version of the story. A king had three sons, all of them unwed. As a solution to their struggle to find brides, the king suggested that they each shoot an arrow in a different direction, and marry the woman to which the arrows landed the closest. The arrows of the two oldest sons landed in the houses of wealthy merchants, each with beautiful unwed daughters. The youngest son's arrow landed in a swamp, right in the home of a little green frog. Before the king would allow the sons to marry, he set the women on three tasks to be certain they would be adequate wives for his sons. Each of the women and the frog bride were set to make a loaf of bread, to spin a yard of fabric, and to dance a waltz. To everyone's amazement, the frog bride excelled at the first two tasks. No one knew how until one night the youngest son discovered that at night the frog shed her skin, and became a beautiful woman. When he asks why she has never revealed herself before, the woman explains that she has been cursed to live as a frog by a wicked sorceress who was jealous of the woman's beauty and grace. The following night, when the brides to be were to waltz with the King, the youngest son stole the frog skin of the woman and burned it. Much to his disdain, the woman vanished in the king's arms, a prisoner of the sorceress who had cursed her. The youngest son wandered into the woods searching for his bride to be, and came across a kind old witch who explained that the only way he could lift the spell off the frog bride was to kill the sorceress. The only way to kill the sorceress would be to break off the tip of a needle, which rested inside of an egg, inside of a duck, inside of a dog, inside of a chest high up in a tree. The youngest son finds the chest, kills the dog to retrieve the duck, and kills the duck to take the egg. As soon as he breaks the egg he breaks off the tip of the needle, and the old sorceress collapses dead in her castle. The woman escapes and returns to her husband to be and the two marry and live happily ever after."

Listening to her story, Erik smiled some. "Well, for one you're a wonderful story teller. For another, I believe we have the story for our ballet."


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note:** Back in school! Sorry if this seems a little disjointed. I wrote the first half or so in one sitting and the rest over a week later!

* * *

By the time Erik and Anya received news of their dear friend's death, Nadir Khan had been buried in Père Lachaise cemetery for nearly two days. The Daroga's servant Darius had shown up at their doorstep late in the evening with more emotion etched onto his typically placid face than Anya had ever seen. The sight of Darius without his master immediately drew Erik to his feet to join his wife at the door, and it was all he could do to keep his composure as Anya began to weep at the news.

The Daroga had been the closest thing Erik had had to a friend for decades. Their relationship was often times strained due to Erik's stubbornness and Nadir's righteous nature, but in his heart each knew the other could be counted on even in the direst of circumstances. The only time the man had ever betrayed Erik was when he had led the Vicomte de Chagny to the house by the underground lake in an attempt to save the now-countess. It was a crime for which Erik had never expected to forgive the man, one which had driven Erik deeper into the madness that consumed him during those dark and hopeless months. But in the end, Nadir Khan's betrayal had saved him. Were it not for that fateful night, Erik would never have met the woman who now carried his child, the woman who through her simple existence had brought Erik back from the dark recesses of his own mind and was slowly but surely guiding him to the light. Nadir's betrayal marked the second he had saved Erik's life, and the masked man was not so much as present at the funeral.

Half a day after receiving the news, Erik stood before the modest, freshly sealed mausoleum. Anya clung to his arm tightly, dressed head to foot in black in spite of the heat. She silently wished she had not burned the veil she had worn when mourning her husband, though it likely would have been stolen with the rest of her belongings when she was evicted from her first Parisian residence so long ago she mused. Was it really so long ago? It seemed like an entire lifetime since those days of begging to teach young ladies to dance and agreeing to wash the floors of the ballet, when it could not have been more than a few years at most.

Leaning her head on her husband's shoulder, she wondered if he would rather be alone. As much as Anya was hurting, she knew her husband must be hurting at least tenfold. In spite of their stark differences, Anya had always imagined the men as brothers. Nadir was protective of Erik, but stern and disciplinary when it was needed. Erik would often go out of his way to irk the Persian, but to Anya it seemed to be the same way he had gone out of his way to bother her when they had first met. It was irritating but innocent, Erik's strange way of expressing fondness without putting himself at risk.

"He would not have wanted this," Erik said so quietly Anya almost thought it was her ears playing tricks on her until his spoke again. "It is not his custom."

"I'm sure Darius wouldn't have let him be buried inappropriately –"

"Darius would not have had a say. Paris has burial laws, and space in the cemetery is restricted. He ought to have been buried in the earth, on his right side facing east and slightly south. There shouldn't be a tombstone at all, let alone an entire stone structure like this," Erik explained as if he were explaining a mathematics equation and not the matter of a dear friend's burial.

Anya frowned some, unsure of what to say. A long moment of silence passed before Erik spoke again. "It isn't right for a pregnant woman to be wandering around a cemetery like this. Finish saying your goodbyes and go home," he instructed with the same formality as before. Anya pursed her lips some and nodded, knowing she was right in thinking her husband wished to be alone. Reaching up onto her toes, Anya planted a tender kiss on the cool porcelain of Erik's cheek.

"I'll see you at home, then," she promised before kissing her fingers and placing them upon the stone of the mausoleum in a final farewell.

Père Lachaise was several miles off from their new home, but Anya decided to walk for a while rather than call a cabby immediately. It was warm out, far too pleasant a day to be feeling so morose. Stroking her the bulge of her belly absently as she walked, Anya reflected on the stories her husband and the Daroga had told her about their times in Persia. What she realized worried her some – Erik had once told her he was fifty years old, more or less. He had already suffered from a weakness of the heart, and now his dearest friend was dead. Nadir could not have been much older than her husband; ten, perhaps fifteen years at the most. At thirty one years old, Anya was suddenly terrified that she would be two times a widow and a mother this time besides, with nothing to fall back on but a career as a lame ballet mistress.

* * *

If there was ever a time in his life when Erik felt the blood in his body ache for morphine, it was that dreadful day. It had been months, perhaps even a year or more since he had felt the urge to drown out the world and slip into the sweet arms of intoxication. He had promised Anya he had not had a drop since he very nearly raped her, and it was true… but it was nearing midnight, and she would surely be asleep when he arrived home. What she did not know certainly couldn't hurt her.

The chemist had been closed for hours, but locks were no great challenge for the magician who for years had supplemented his meager performer's income with picking the pockets and locks of wealthy families all across Europe and Asia. When the needle slipped into his vein and the sweet liquid began to warm his body, Erik almost thought he could hear the disappointed sigh of the Persian from his grave. Fortunately the drug was so fast acting he simply didn't care.

Anya was asleep on the sofa under the soft glow of a reading lamp, a sight which guilted Erik more than he had expected it to. She trusted him. She was concerned for him. He had sworn he would never be near her while he wasn't in his right mind, but here he was.

Erik moved over to the lamp and turned it off, causing Anya to stir and Erik's heart to drop.

"You're home," she whispered with a smile, although the concern on her face was evident. "I was getting worried. What time is it?"

"Go back to sleep," Erik urged. "It's midnight. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right. I fell asleep early. These electric lights are going to take some time to get used to; they hurt my eyes a little. I was just going to rest my eyes for a moment, but I suppose I fell asleep longer than I thought."

"I'll find better shades for them in the morning," he promised as Anya sat up and patted the place next to her on the sofa. Erik moved away to hang up his coat, ignoring her request that he sit. "You ought to go back to sleep."

"Are you okay?" Anya asked suddenly, looking up at him in the low lighting. "You're home so late, and you're acting strange –"

"God dammit woman, must you always accuse Erik of betraying you?" The masked man snapped bitterly, and Anya's eyes widened considerably.

"I… what..?"

"Go back to sleep."

Anya stood and folded her arms some nervously. "Not until you tell me what's going on, Erik."

"Erik owes you no explanations! Simply because you were foolish enough to marry him does not make you his warden!" Erik snapped, striding into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine.

"Erik, tell me what's wrong," she insisted, moving her hands down to her belly instinctively. "I know you're hurting. I miss Nadir too, and I can't even imagine how much this is hurting you, but if we –"

"Stop!" Erik barked, slamming a fist down on the table next to his glass. Anya bit her lip before striding forward boldly and snatching the remainder of the bottle of wine off the table to pour its contents down the sink. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

"I think you've had plenty of alcohol for one night, Erik," she told him firmly. "Can you even hear yourself? You sound like a madman! Thank God I sent my sister away or she would have called the police at the sight of you."

"Your sister was here? You let a stranger into our home without consulting Erik?" He hissed, advancing upon her. Anya's eyes widened in fear but her jaw set stubbornly.

"She isn't a stranger, Erik, she is my sister whether either of us likes it or not. Monsieur Moncharmin told her my forwarding address and she simply showed up at the doorstep like a lost pup. I fed her supper and sent her to a hotel to stay the night because I knew you would not allow her to stay with us, and frankly I didn't want her to either. I'm glad I did in hindsight, with this foul state you're in I can't even begin to imagine what you might have done if she had stayed," Anya accused, yelping when Erik raised a hand as if to strike her. He caught himself before the blow fell, shocked back into reality by the panic in her voice and the way her whole body recoiled from him. Her threat from the last time he had dared to strike her rang in his ears. Anya would vanish and he would never see her again. Even in the state he was in, Erik knew this was not a risk he was prepared to take.

Erik frowned deeply under the mask as Anya covered her face to hide her tears. Gently he reached forward to cup her face, and Anya covered her hand with his before wrapping her arms around his neck and crying silently into his shoulder. Erik could feel the baby turning restlessly in his wife's belly as she held him, and he kissed the top of her head.

"I'm not myself just now, Anya," he finally admitted after a long moment. "It's best if you keep away from me for a while until my head clears."

Anya sighed, sadly. "What did you do, Erik? You promised…"

"I know what I promised," Erik said, cutting her off. "But what is done is done. Go to bed, and lock the door behind you. I'll sleep by the hearth tonight."

Biting the inside of her cheeks, Anya nodded and slipped away from him to their bedroom, closing the door behind her. It was not until Erik heard the soft click of the lock that he dared to move and make himself comfortable by the fireplace.

* * *

When he awoke the next morning Anya was curled in his lap, watching him with large grey-green eyes. Erik kissed her forehead, surprised she was awake before him.

"You are a horrible human being," she scolded half heartedly, allowing him to kiss her before resting her head back on his shoulder. "I was worried about you all night last night, and then when you finally come home to be treated like that after such a difficult day?"

"You don't deserve how I treated you, Anya. You are an angel and I am the devil incarnate," Erik promised, ignoring the ache in his blood for more of that sweet liquid. The next few days were not going to be easy.

"My first marriage was miserable," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I suffered in silence to try and keep the peace… I am too old for that now, Erik. Even if I weren't, it wouldn't be fair to the baby if I did. I don't want to raise a child in a household full of anger and arguing."

Erik frowned and allowed Anya to removed his mask and kiss him tenderly. "I love you, Erik. And I know you love me. But you've got to trust me, My Love. And you must give me more reason to trust you. When you make me a promise I expect you to keep it," she scolded quietly, and the man nodded his agreement. Anya rewarded him with another kiss, as if to reassure him she would not stay mad forever. "Was it morphine?"

"Yes. Honestly, I'm the only man I've ever met who reacts such a way to it. It puts most men to sleep, but it can put my temper on edge given the right circumstances," Erik explained with a small frown.

"I noticed. I don't like the man it makes you, Erik. I know you're hurting, but Nadir wouldn't want this for you. Promise me you won't ever touch the stuff again."

"You have my word, Anya. Never again, for him and for you. He likely rolled over in his grave at my behavior yesterday."

"Well. Perhaps now he's facing the proper way," she teased some, nudging him to coax a small smile. "Let's get dressed. The only way to get my sister to leave the house was to agree to lunch."

Erik gave her a hesitant look, and Anya patted his knee before standing. "Don't give me that. What's mine is yours and yours is mine now, remember? That makes her your sister too, like it or not. And since you got all the barbarian out of you last night, you had better be civil towards her."


	31. Chapter 31

"You don't have to stay," Anya offered guiltily as Erik set the table. "Really, I didn't mean it. She's my sister, I can manage her on my own."

Erik regarded her curiously. "You really think she's going to try and steal me away, don't you?" He stated more than asked.

Anya opened her mouth as if to protest before hanging her head some in defeat. "Yes," she admitted. "It's not that I don't think you love me Erik, I swear. She just… She's so lovely and charming, and she has this way of always getting what she wants. You'd think she was raised a princess, not a pauper."

"You were really so poor in your youth?" Erik asked curiously, and Anya nodded.

"We were. I'm sure we weren't as bad off as you were, from what you've said. But our parents died when we were very young, and they had nothing to leave us with even if they had wanted to. I married young, partially because I was in love and partially to make sure I never wound up on the street if my career as a dancer ended early. .Men were Karina's way of staying off the street," she explained quietly. "They took care of her until their fiancés or wives caught on. Then it was on to the next."

"But you mentioned that in her letters she said she was married. Why should be any threat to a married man now?"

Anya hung her head some. "Her husband left her when he caught her with another man. That's why she's back in France; she saw all the wealthy men here while she was on her honeymoon and thought she would be better served where her reputation did not follow her."

A knock rang at the door, and both husband and wife glanced at the door anxiously. Anya straightened herself out and pecked his masked cheek. "You can go out the back. I told her yesterday that your brother died, she won't blame you for missing lunch," Anya promised.

Erik considered this for a long moment before another knock drew him from his thoughts. He shook his head. "No. I'll stay," he said quietly. He knew if he left now he would wind up spending his day the same as the previous – hours upon hours of sulking at the graveside of his only friend, followed by a trip to the chemist and more mistakes he was not prepared to make again. Staying was the lesser of two evils. "Get the door, I'll finish with the table."

Anya did as she was bidden and straightened her dress around the bulge in her belly as she moved to the door and opened it with her best painted-on smile. "Karina. It's good to see you again. You look great," she promised, accepting a hug from the younger woman.

"Anya! You look bigger even than yesterday! When did you say you're due again?"

"Sometime next week, we think. Give or take a few days."

Karina was truly a stunning woman, standing slightly shorter than Anya with darker hair making the grey-green eyes shared with her sister stand out even more than Anya's did. She was better proportioned than her sister, more fit to be the belle of the ball rather than a dancer with narrow shoulders, full breasts and gently curving hips. She stepped inside with catlike grace, her steps less measured than Anya's gait but gentle and flowing nevertheless.

"How wonderful! I do hope I'm still here when the baby is born. I'd love to meet my very first niece or nephew."

"Your first and last, in all likely hood," Anya admitted, suddenly realizing how foreign Russian felt on her tongue after so many months of speaking only French. She couldn't pinpoint when, but sometime since meeting Erik she had even begun to think in French. "I was lucky to get pregnant at all, let alone keep the baby this long."

"Your husband takes very good care of you," Karina smiled, stepping inside with her sister. "I can't wait to meet him. Is he out at the cemetery again today?"

Anya smiled again, exhausted by the effort. "No, Erik decided to join us for lunch. Karina, there's something about him I didn't mention yesterday."

Karina raised a brow and tipped her head curiously. "What is it? He's not sick is he?"

"No, no. Well. Not like how you're thinking," Anya admitted quietly. "He… Erik wears a mask, Karina. You _must_ not ask him to remove it. It is a very sensitive subject for him, and he has a terribly short temper."

The younger woman laughed nervously. "Anya, you make it sound as if he's… a spirit or something."

"No, it's not like that. He is very much a man, and a wonderful one when he's in the mind to be. But promise me you won't pry. I know you inherited the same curiosity I did –"

"I promise, Sister," Karina vowed. "Now let me meet him! I'm terribly curious to see what you mean!"

Anya brought her sister into the kitchen where Erik was pouring two glasses of wine and had already set a neat glass of milk at the chair nearest the head of the table. Karina smiled pleasantly at the sight of the man – if she were at all deterred by the mask that adorned his face, she made no sign of it. "Oh, Erik! Anya has told me so much about you I feel as if I've known you our whole lives," she said, moving to embrace the man as he stood up straight. Anya's heart pounded wildly in her chest and the baby danced in her belly as Erik awkwardly stood still and permitted the embrace, completely disarmed at this sign of affection from a stranger.

"Karina, Erik doesn't speak much Russian-"

"You must be Anya's sister," Erik responded in better Russian than his wife expected. "I've heard much about you too. Have a seat," he bade, gesturing to a chair at the table. Karina pulled out the chair for herself and sat neatly, looking for all the world a little porcelain doll with her corset cinched up neatly and her ankles crossed.

Karina did much of the talking as they ate. The way she spoke was as though there were no troubles in the world. It was as though she had never struggled a day in her life, as though their parents had not died, as though her sister had never left their home, as though her husband had not kicked her out of her home with no place else to go. Anya answered any questions with as few words as possible, eager for the lunch to be over. The baby in her belly had not stopped tumbling since Katrina walked in the door, leaving her with hardly any appetite.

"Really Anya, for a woman so far with child you eat like a bird!" Karina scolded, and Erik squeezed her hand under the table.

"Are you well, My Love?"

Anya smiled to them both. "I'm fine. Mischa was hungry when I woke up this morning, but it seems she is getting an early start on her kicks at the present," she promised. "Would you like more wine?"

"Something stronger, if you have it," Karina grinned. "I would kill for a glass of vodka."

Anya pushed back her chair and laughed some. "You'll have to go back to St. Petersburg for that, Sister. The French are very proud of their wine and liquors. Anything imported can only be afforded by the aristocrats. We have brandy though, if that will do."

"And for good reason! The wine you serve with lunch would be the price of an apartment back home. I can't even imagine what the wine you serve with dinner would cost!" Karina exclaimed. "Brandy sounds wonderful. Aren't you going to offer your husband any?"

Anya forced a smile. "I already know my husband would like another glass of wine and was quite prepared to pour him one," she promised as she stood. Before she had completely risen Anya's world went dark and she collapsed to the floor, striking the table in her fall. Erik was out of his seat before Anya hit the ground, moving around the table to cradle her into his arms.

"Anya. Anya can you hear me?"

Karina moved to her sister and brother in law crouching at their side before Erik barked at her viciously. "Get out of my home."

"I –"

"She never wanted you here, you self-centered waif," Erik seethed, scooping up his wife and looking down at the startled woman. "The stress was nearly making her shake. She has had a difficult enough pregnancy without you adding to it. Now leave, while I still have half a mind to let you," he threatened, carrying Anya to their bedroom quickly. At the sound of the front door closing Erik released a breath he had not known he was holding as he placed his wife carefully upon the bed

"Anya, wake up my sweet. Please, wake up," he urged, stroking her hair.

A small smile crept onto Anya's face, and she opened one eye. "Is she gone?"

Erik blinked, astonished. "Yes, she left just a moment ago."

Anya giggled and sat up with considerable effort. "Was I that convincing?"

"…You were faking? Dear God, Anya, I half thought you were dead!"

"I'm sorry, My Love. She was driving me mad with all her chatter! I haven't had to sit in a room with her for years. I had forgotten how she grates on my nerves. I knew you would chase her off if you thought I was sick, and I knew she was too much of a coward to disobey," Anya explained, moving over in the bed to make room for him to join her.

Erik stood, trying to be angrier than he was. He could not fight off the smile that was creeping up under the mask. "You scared me half to death, Anya."

Anya smiled, knowing in spite of his tone he was forgiving. "Awww," she cooed. "You were worried for me," she teased, knowing how private her husband often was with his emotions, especially when cornered.

"You could have killed the baby," he scolded half heartedly.

"You are an angel," she praised. "My hero. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't stayed. I would even say we're even for how you behaved yesterday," Anya offered, patting the place beside her again insistently. Erik finally relented and sat beside her, allowing her to curl against him like a cat.

"Yes, well. If we're even then I suppose I can't be too upset," he admitted, stroking her hair as she smiled languidly before wincing some. Erik rolled his eyes fondly. "You're not fooling me again, Anya."

"I'm not fooling, Erik," she swore, rubbing her belly. "She's kicking really hard, feel," Anya urged, taking his hand and laying it on her belly before knitting her brow. "Well, damn. She stopped."

"Have I ever told you the story of the little boy who cried wolf?" Erik asked, kissing her forehead.

"No, but I know it. I'm being honest, Erik. She stopped, so I don't suppose it matters now," Anya frowned. "Well, tell me. What did you think of my sister?"

"I think I'm nervous to have a daughter now," Erik said simply. "I cannot believe that woman shares your blood. What if Mischa turns out like your sister?"

"Then God help us both. I doubt she will, though. She has you as a father, after all. I'm certain if any man looks at her you'll strangle them, and with good right," she smiled before wincing again.

Erik frowned and placed his hand on his wife's belly to feel any kicking. Her belly felt more tense than usual, but the fluttering under her skin was no more aggressive than usual. "I don't feel a thing, Anya."

Rolling away from him, Anya covered her face with her hands, quickly hiding her flushing cheeks. Erik regarded her curiously and after a long moment Anya sighed, taking her hands away from her face. "Do you remember that night we almost made love for the first time and you got… a little overzealous?"

"The day I forget it will be the day you lay me in the dirt," Erik muttered. "Why?"

"I think I've made a similar err," she admitted, wiping the tears from her eyes. Erik frowned deeply and moved from the bed, heart racing.

"Anya, it's no fault of yours. The baby is coming."

Anya sat bolt upright, clutching her belly. "What? What do you mean? How do you know?"

"Your water bag broke. The pains are your body trying to move the baby. It's on its way."


	32. Chapter 32

Anya sighed audibly in relief when a knock came from the front door. Erik had sent a street boy off to find the midwife Anya had hired over an hour before, and Anya was worried the baby would come before the midwife. In his haste, Erik had paid the boy upfront for his haste – he didn't stop to think that the boy might run off with the money never to be seen again.

Erik pushed her down gently as she tried to sit up. "I'll get it," he told her, amusement in his voice. She had always been stubbornly proactive, the type to go out of her way to make sure Erik was not bothered by any visitors that might come by their new home. In her state, Erik was not about to let Anya out of bed for even the time it took to open the door.

The next thing Anya heard was shouting and the breaking of glass, causing her to bolt painfully upright just as another contraction struck her hard. "Erik? Erik what's happening?"

When the voice of her sister answered, Anya immediately knew the answer. "It's all right, Anya, he's not going to hurt you anymore."

Pulling herself out of bed with a groan that was both pained and enraged, Anya struggled to the doorway of the bedroom in time to see Erik struggling with a policeman. Her mind raced, trying to think of where he hid that thin piece of rope she had seen only once or twice but had heard many stories of. The catgut snake that had killed criminals, politicians, and artists with its deadly bite, and if Anya could find it she would have no qualms with it killing men of the law if it kept her family safe.

A second policeman pulled himself off the floor, bleeding heavily from a cut across his cheek Anya could only assume Erik had inflicted with a piece of the broken vase that was strewn across the floor. The baton in the officer's hand went unnoticed by Anya until it was too late to warn Erik of the danger – her scream filled the house just as the blow struck the back of Erik's head and he crumpled against the policeman whom he had been struggling with.

"Stop this! He hasn't done anything!"

"Anya, you don't have to be afraid anymore," cooed the pretty young brunette, finally moving inside from the doorway, giving the men a wide berth.

"Afraid? Who in God's name said I was afraid of him?"

"You did yourself! You warned me not to touch your mask, that he had a nasty temper. I saw it for myself, the way he treated me when you collapsed –"

"That's only his way, Karina! He's uncomfortable around strangers, and the mask –" Just as she said it, the mask fell from Erik's face and the whole room grew quiet. Karina gasped and covered her mouth while the men made sounds of disgust and let Erik's limp body fall to the floor. Only Anya moved towards the man, throwing herself over him even as another contraction grabbed hold. "Don't touch him. Please. I'm having his baby even as we speak. We were waiting for the midwife when you came to the door. Please. Please, if you have half a heart in your chest, let him go. I swear whatever this woman has told you, she is misinformed. My husband is a good man."

"Madame, your husband matches a description we have of the Opera Ghost. Even if he hasn't harmed you he is guilty enough to hang."

Anya cried quietly and stroked her husband's bare face. "He's a good man," she insisted again. "He's made mistakes. Haven't you? Mistakes are forgivable –"

"Murders are not, Madame. Step away."

"No," she said firmly, shaking her head before yelping as yet another contraction struck her hard. She let go of her husband for just a moment to clutch at her belly, and suddenly he was pulled out from under her. Anya sobbed and reached for him as the men propped her husband up between them, but the pain paralyzed her. It radiated through her hips and spread like fire through her back and groin as she rolled onto her back and sobbed as the door closed. Karina finally moved towards her and knelt beside her sister. When she attempted to take Anya's hands, Anya snarled and backed away from her. "Don't touch me, you witch! I hate you. You stole Luka away from me, and now Erik is going to die because of you! You've destroyed everything I've loved! Now get out of my house."

"Anya, I –"

"Get out!" Anya shouted, pointing to the door the police had left open with tears running down her face. "Get out now! I don't ever want to see you again!"

"Anya, you can't have a baby alone! Let me help you to the hospital," Karina pleaded, reaching out to her again only to be slapped away.

"No. The baby has a better chance being born here than anywhere near you! You destroy everything you touch, Karina. Get out!" Anya roared before collapsing into sobs back onto the floor.

Karina bit her lips hard and nodded some. "All right. Fine. But if I leave now you won't ever see me again," Karina threatened, and Anya laughed bitterly through her tears.

"Good riddance," she muttered, clutching her belly and wishing for nothing more than for Erik to burst in the door and tear her sister to ribbons.

* * *

"I'm here to see my husband, Erik Rameau."

Anya's voice echoed through the jailhouse, causing Erik to pull his face away from his knees and move towards the bars. The sound of heels clicked down the hallway, and suddenly she appeared like a vision from a dream. It had been two days since he had seen her, and he was beginning to think that her writhing in pain due to his child was the image he would carry with him to the noose. Anya smiled to him tearfully and looked up to her uniformed escort. "Please… just a few minutes alone?"

The policeman looked hesitant before nodding and granting her five minutes. As he stepped away, Anya sank to be level with him and reached through the bars to cup his bare face. "Are you okay? What have they done to you?"

"Nothing I haven't endured before," he responded coldly, looking off in the direction of his captors. "I was starting to think you'd died…"

Anya shook her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. "No. I'm fine. The baby is fine. The midwife came not too long after they took you. He's with her now."

"He?"

Anya stroked his face and smiled tearfully. "Yes. I named him after his father and his uncle. Erik Nadir Rameau. He's beautiful, Erik. You would adore him."

"Does he… Does he take after his father in any other way?" Erik ventured, and Anya nodded, but pleasantly.

"Yes. He already adores music. I was singing to him while I fed him last night, and he stopped fussing right away. But no, Husband. He does not have your face."

Erik's whole body seemed to flood with relief. Anya stroked his hollow cheek with her thumb. "Do you remember when you tricked the whole Opera into thinking Moncharmin was you? I tried so hard not to laugh I nearly cried."

"Of course I remember. I was cursed with a nearly flawless memory," Erik explained.

"Before I saw it was Moncharmin, I was terrified they had finally caught you."

"That was the night we first made love," Erik added and Anya smiled. In spite of his circumstances, Erik felt a smell swelling of pride to see her flush.

"Yes it was. You do have a good memory," she mused, lowering her eyes. "I… I prayed for two nights that this was all like that night. That it wasn't really you they were arresting, that you had played another trick on them, and on me. But this is really happening isn't it?"

Erik had no time to respond. The same uniformed man came into view and cleared his throat gently. "Time's up."

With a deep frown, Anya looked up to the man. "Five more minutes?"

The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Madame. I wasn't supposed to leave you alone at all."

Anya nodded her understanding and wiped at her eyes, which had begun to tear again. She pulled Erik's face towards hers and kissed her through the bars. "I love you, Erik. With all my heart and soul."

"I love you too, Anya." Erik promised, ignoring the disgusted look from the man in the uniform. As they kissed. The man cleared his throat again and Anya closed her eyes to stand.

"When… When is he going to..?" she began to ask, unable to finish.

"Three days."

"May I see him again before then?"

"I don't see why not. But if I'm not the one here don't expect to be left alone," the man warned.

Anya froze as Erik's voice brushed against her left ear, though when she glanced back down to him his mouth remained still. "There is a small black vial in the house by the lake. In the bathroom adjoining the room I used to live in. If you can get to it, bring it with you. The safest way in is through the torture chamber. I disabled it not long after you got lost in the cellars. The entrance is between a scene from Roi de Lahore and a set piece. You're clever enough to find it."

* * *

Anya went straight from the prison to the Palais Garnier, hesitating for a long moment at the thought of her son at home with a woman who was practically a stranger. Erik would not have sent her on an errand like this if he didn't think there was even the slightest chance it could free him. The midwife was an old, trustworthy woman already nursing two other infants… right now, her husband needed her more than her son did.

Find the set piece had been easier than sneaking through the Palais Garnier undetected. The weight she still carried from the baby helped disguise her figure, and keeping her gaze down kept anyone who did think they might have recognized her from prying, but still there was the occasional ballerina who would stop her to say hello and catch up on events. Anya did her best to be polite but distant, eventually retreating to the cellars where the set pieces and scenes were stored.

It took everything in her to ignore the fact she was dropping down into a place where only God and Erik knew how many lives had been taken. Now was not the time to dwell on Erik's past crimes. He was not the man he had been then, there was no denying that. He had proven himself time after time. Rather than rape her he had abstained, rather than murder the managers or burning down the whole building when a trap had been laid out for him, he had tricked them all and no one was harmed. He was no longer a monster, and he needed her help.

The vial was exactly where Erik had said it would be, covered in dust in a cabinet in his bathroom. Anya opened it and peered inside, smelling its contents and frowning – the vial had no smell, and the liquid seemed clear. Looking around, she rummaged through several jars and bags but found nothing but herbs and fowl smelling powders; this was the only vial to be found. Prayers had done her no good the past two days, but Anya looked to the sky and said a silent prayer that the contents of the vial were more significant than they seemed before standing and tucking the vial into her skirts to push a chair into the torture chamber, climbing out the way she had come in.


	33. Chapter 33

When Anya arrived back at the jailhouse the day before the hanging, she was not alone. A make-shift sling was draped across Anya's shoulder, supporting her precious cargo. Her son slept trustingly against her breast, unaware of the warning the midwife turned nurse had given Anya about taking a infant so young into such an unsettling part of town.

As she stepped inside, Anya's heart froze in her chest – standing at the front desk were the managers Moncharmin and Richard, the two men to whom she owed both so much and so little; were it not for their obsession with catch the Opera Ghost years after his worst crimes, her husband would be free and they would be together at home learning about this strange yet beautiful creature cradled against her breast.

In spite of her best attempts to move past them unnoticed, the man seated at the desk noticed her and drew all attention to her. "Excuse me, Madame? I'll have to ask you to check in here before I can send someone in with you."

"Madame Chekov?" Richard asked.

"Rameau now, actually," Anya corrected, adjusting the stirring infant.

"…That's right. Surely you're not married to the same Erik Rameau –"

"I am, Messieurs, and proudly," Anya said, chin held high although she instinctively drew the baby closer, knowing her words were bold. The men exchanged glances at one another. And Moncharmin frowned.

"You're married to that… that _thing_ that has been terrorizing the Garnier?"

"I am married to the architect who designed and helped build it without any compensation, and to the musician who trained Christine Daae to sing like an Angel. It's safe to say he has made the two of you as much money as he's taken over the years. Monsieur, may I have an escort to see my husband now?" Anya demanded, turning her attention away from the managers and back to the man behind the desk.

"Ah… right. Right away," the man promised, waving to another of the uniformed men. "Take Madame Rameau to see her husband, please. Cell six."

Anya smiled politely to her escort, the same man from before. The uniformed man smiled back and gestured for her to step in front of him down the hall of cells. "I can't leave you alone today," he said as soon as they were out of earshot. "There's been a lot of fuss over your husband once we confirmed his identity."

"Not even for a minute or two?" Anya asked with her brow furrowed. "He's never seen his son, and he's so terribly shy…"

The man hesitated. "I can go down the end of the hall, but I won't be entirely out of earshot," he warned, and Anya nodded her understanding. Turning face the cell, she frowned deeply when she noticed Erik seated in the corner of the cell, knees pulled to his chest as he faced away.

The baby began to fuss, drawing Erik's attention towards them as if he had not noticed them before. Erik stood and ventured over towards her timidly. Anya smiled up to him as she adjusted the bundle in her arms. Removing the newborn from his sling, Anya cradled him in her arms with the utmost care. "I told you he was beautiful," Anya whispered, and it was the truth. The infant had thin hair as black as pitch, and Erik could make out a faint blue-grey color under heavily lidded eyes.

"Why are his eyes blue?" Erik asked accusingly, and Anya chuckled.

"In all your travels you've never seen a baby this small? They usually have blue eyes. They've already changed a little since he was born. I think they're going to be like mine."

Erik began to reach through the bars before pulling back his hand and looking to her for permission. Anya smiled broadly and nodded. "Go on. You can touch, him he won't break."

"He's so small," Erik remarked, reaching out again and touching the child's cheek. The infant turned his head into the touch and pursed his lips, closing his eyes tightly. "You shouldn't have given him my name."

"Why not?"

"He truly is perfect," Erik remarked, watching the child as he fell back asleep. "Did you-"

Anya gave him a hard look to silence him before nodding over her shoulder towards where the uniformed man was standing. Erik seemed to catch on and started again. "Did you get permission from the nurse to take him out? What if he catches a cold?"

"That's what the sling is for," Anya said, placing the baby back into the sling and unwrapping one of the folds up near her shoulder to produce the small vial. Erik took the vial and inspected it, seeming satisfied.

When he spoke again, his mouth did not move, and Anya knew his words were only heard by her. "Go to the harbor in one week. I will find you there. Bring as much money as you can find and pack only what you can carry." Anya opened her mouth as if to object, but thought better of it and simply nodded, cradling the infant against her chest.

"I love you, Erik."

"I love you too," he promised, audibly this time.

* * *

Any cried more on the day of her husband's death than on any other day in her memory.

The morning Erik was meant to hang, the uniformed man who had been kind enough to afford them some semblance of privacy knocked at her door. Anya peered through the window and frowned some as she opened the door. "Monsieur. How may I help you?"

"Madame Rameau… I come bearing news."

Anya's heart dropped at the man's tone. "He's been hanged."

"No, Madame. He was found dead in his cell this morning," the man explained, steadying Anya as she nearly collapsed to the floor at the news.

"I… How?"

"No one really knows. I was sent to ask you if he had any medical conditions that might have contributed to his death."

Once again, Anya's heart dropped in her chest like a stone. "He has a weak heart. He collapsed from it once before. I thought I had lost him," she murmured, allowing the man to help her to the sofa. "I suppose now I really have."

That was not the only bad news Anya received that day. Not long after the uniformed man left, one of the ballerinas came to the door with a letter from the managers retracting their job offer at the ballet. Twice a widow, unemployed, and a new mother… Anya cried for herself, she cried for her new baby who would never know his father. She cried for her husband who had known little more than cruelty for the majority of his life, for the man who had died alone in a jail cell.

It took every ounce of strength Anya had to feed and comfort her baby when he cried. All she wanted was to cry until her strength left her and she could join her husband. But this life, this tiny little piece of Erik needed her. He needed food and love, affection Erik never received.

But how could she give him that without Erik? She could feed the child as long as she could feed herself, but the money would run out eventually. Anya would forever be the madwoman who married the Opera Ghost. Madame Fantôme. No one in their right minds would hire her to teach their children, especially once the word leaked through the upper echelon. Anya could read and write adequately enough to teach, but again there was the problem of who would ever hire her. Besides dance and literacy, she had little to offer by way of skills.

Even if Erik's money lasted until the child was a toddler, what then? He would need an education, food, clothes… things that Anya herself could not survive. She had known several women in St. Petersberg in similar situations, women who had been excommunicated from the ballet company for their pregnancies and had nowhere else to turn but selling themselves on the street. Anya would do whatever it took to give her son what he deserved from life, but there was one more option.

She could go to America. No one knew her there, even if she kept her name. She would have her body back soon, and with enough work her poor leg might even regain some of its former flexibility and allow her to not only teach but to dance again. She didn't know any English, but she had heard of neighborhoods filled with Russian immigrants, and even entire cities that were fluent in French. But she couldn't travel with such a small child, and even if she waited until her son was old enough to travel, the odds were it would take time to establish a life. It might take time to find a steady income, or even a home. She could manage on her own for as long as it took… but a child did not deserve that kind of life. A life of poverty in America could even be worse for the child than if his mother began working on the street. At least prostitution was somewhat lucrative, especially if she could establish herself at someplace with wealthy clients like Le Moulin Rouge.

Stroking the infant's cheek as he suckled at her breast, a thought crossed Anya's mind that initially made her ill. She banished the thought from her mind and crawled into bed, watching her beautiful son fall asleep. He deserved a loving home, an education, an inheritance. He deserved the world. Again the thought crept into her mind, and it took her longer to push it away this time. She couldn't do it. She wasn't strong enough. She loved young Erik so much… he was the only thing she had left of her husband, her first and only child, sheer perfection. But if she loved him, shouldn't she do her very best to give him everything he deserved?

* * *

"Comptesse! Comptesse, come quickly!" The maid shouted from the door, her voice filled with nervous excitement. Christine floated down the stairs towards the woman a few moments later, still not quite used to the title. Once the rumor about Raoul's involvement in his brother's death had subsided, his title had been increased from Vicomte to Comte. In just over a decade Christine de Changy nee Daae had gone from a chorus girl to a prima donna, from a prima donna to a lady, and from a lady to a comptesse. She wasn't sure she would ever be able to wrap her head around all the changes that had occurred over the years.

"Honestly Amie, Christine is just fine. What is it?" She asked the maid, coming to the door. Christine gasped audibly and covered her mouth at the site of an infant wrapped in a thick, warm blanket and settled carefully into a basket. The babe slept peacefully, unaware of his location and of the two notes settled neatly over the blankets. To Christine's surprise, the first of the notes was addressed to her.

_Comptesse de Changy,_

_I cannot begin to express my admiration of you. You are blessed, Christine. You are in love with your handsome, wealthy husband, your childhood sweetheart. I knew the moment I saw the both of you that what you have is a deeper love than I shared with my first husband, and I am confident your marriage will be long and happy. I also know that you are a kind and caring woman and a loving mother. That is why I am asking you, no, begging you to care for my son with the same love and care you have shown your own children. I cannot give him the life that he deserves, but I know with you he will have a warm bed, food in his belly, and a loving household to grow up in. I regret not getting to know you better. I blame my jealous heart for that, and I hope that you will forgive me. If you do not feel that you could do me this favor, I beg you to do it for my husband, who cared for you so dearly and whom I know you cared for as well._

_I have included a letter for my son that I would like you to give to him when he is of a proper age. I am certain he will be as bright and curious as his father and will want to know where he comes from one day._

_My fondest regards, and all the gratitude in the world,_

_Madame Fant__ô__me_

* * *

Anya stepped towards the harbor and took a deep, shaking breath. This was the day Erik had said to meet her. If he had lived he would have explained his plan. Perhaps they would have gone to England or to Spain to live out their lives, but as it stood Anya was alone.

As she approached the ticket kiosk, Anya suddenly felt as though she were being watched. Putting her suitcases down, she looked over her shoulder a moment before smiling politely to the man behind the desk and showing her papers to acquire a ticket. A tall figure stepped beside her and pulled her money away from the salesman. Anya's heart raced as she looked up at the hooded figure. When he spoke, she nearly fainted. "That won't be necessary. Thank you for your time, Monsieur," Erik bid the man, taking Anya's arm gently to lead her aside.

Erik led them to a shaded portion of the harbor, and Anya followed obediently, completely unable to speak. When he finally stopped and faced her, Anya threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. She kissed him repeatedly before pulling away and letting her hand fly across his face, the sound echoing across the harbor. "I thought you were dead!"

"I staged my death. Nadir was the only person who could have gotten me out of there alive. Without him my only option was in a body bag," Erik explained, "And it's much harder to fake death by hanging."

"They said they found you dead one morning! When I suggested it was your heart –"

"It was my heart. The vial you brought contained a poison I used to use in my magic routine to bring animals back from the dead. It slows the heart beyond detection. No physician alive could have known I was alive unless they had kept watch on me for a full day, at least. I awoke in a wooden box and slipped out when the voices outside went quiet. I suppose they weren't expecting a dead man to escape and took their coffee break together."

Anya wiped at her eyes with the palms of her hands. "You should have told me that's what you were planning."

"I wasn't sure it would work. The chemical was old, there was a chance it would have lost its potency. I didn't want to mislead you," he said, leaning forward to kiss her again. His face was bare, but Anya didn't care in the slightest. Erik was here, alive, and she loved him dearly. "Where is our son?"

Anya gaped a moment before hanging her head. "I… You have to swear not to hate me, Erik. I hate myself enough…"

Erik looked to her incredulously. "Anya, what happened to our son? Where is Erik?" He demanded, and Anya sobbed.

"I gave him up. I couldn't raise him alone Erik, and I couldn't take him with me to America, not while he's so little. He deserves more-"

"Who? Who has him? We'll get him back, we won't leave without him."

"He's with the de Changys," Anya whispered. "And Erik, even if we could take him back we'd be in the same situation I was in. My job offer was revoked, and with your face it will be impossible for you to find work either. We can't survive without money, Erik. Trust me. It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make… but it was the best. I swear it. I want him to be happy. I want him to be love _and_ have the world on a string. Christine will love him like her own. You know it as much as I do."

Erik looked as if he were about to shout at her, his already hideous face contorting in rage before he turned and walked away some, clearly trying to keep a hold on his temper. Anya frowned deeply as she saw his head drop and his hands come to his face. "Erik…"

The tall man stood at his full height again when Anya touched his back. "There was really no choice, was there?"

Anya shook her head. "None that I saw. If you can think of a choice, any choice, please tell me and I will do everything I can to make this right. But the only thing I can think to do is leave France. Especially now that you are alive."

Erik bowed his head in defeat before taking a deep breath. "Right. I have our tickets. We'll go to New York and from there down to New Orleans. I think even with my face we can have a reasonable life there."

Reaching up onto her toes, Anya kissed her husband soundly. "I love you, Erik. I would follow you to hell and back if it meant I could be with you."

Erik returned the kiss and stroked her cheek. "We've already been through hell and back. I think it's time we find someplace a little more accommodating."

-_fin_-


	34. Epilogue

"That was wonderful," said a young man in heavily accented English as chattering onlookers left the tent.

Erik bowed some politely and answered in French. "You're not from around here, are you?"

The boy smiled. "A magician, a musician, and a mind reader. Is there anything you don't do?"

"I have yet to perfect the art of flying past levitation, but I'm working on that. What part of France do you hail from?" Erik asked, packing his violin into its case as he had every three days a week for the past fifteen or so years.

"Paris, actually. Was my accent so terrible?"

"Yes," Erik answered honestly, but in a tone that clearly stated it didn't matter. The boy chuckled lightly.

"Are you from Louisiana originally?" The boy asked, watching the masked man continue to pack for the day.

"No. I'm a man of the world, but I've lived here for the past fifteen years, give or take. It's terribly hard to keep track these days," Erik remarked, picking up the violin case and his bag and regarding the boy for the first time. He was tall for his age, only his face giving away his youth as he stood proudly and well dress. His hair was as black as pitch, contrasting starkly with his grey-green eyes and high, pale cheekbones. There was something terribly familiar about that face. Walking towards the exit of the tent, Erik allowed the young man to pull aside the opening and step through behind him.

"Would you like help taking down the tent?" The boy offered, and Erik waved him off as he began to pull back the canvas. After watching the masked man for a long moment, he spoke again. "Why haven't you taken off the mask?"

This question made Erik pause as he folded the canvas, leaving the wooden frame intact. "Young man, the mask is the only thing you have seen tonight that is not a parlor trick."

"What happened?"

Erik mused how decades ago that question might have chilled him to the bone, enraged him to the point of murder. His lie now was so practiced and so easily believed by the superstitious locals that it rolled off the tongue so honestly God Himself might not have known it was a lie. "Let's just say there is a reason my wife has asked that I practice parlor tricks instead of real voodoo."

"You're married then?"

"You are an inquisitive one aren't you?" Erik accused. "Don't you have anyplace else to be besides bothering old performers?"

"Sorry," The boy muttered, looking rather liked a kicked dog. "Really, the performance was wonderful. You ought to charge more," he remarked before turning to leave and give the man the privacy he clearly desired.

Although he couldn't say why, Erik felt a twinge of remorse for speaking so harshly to the boy. "Have you eaten?"

The boy turned and looked at the masked man in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you've eaten. My wife will have supper ready by now, and she always makes more than either of us can eat. You're welcome to take a portion with you if you're hungry."

"That sounds great. I haven't eaten since I arrived," the young man admitted.

"How long ago was that?" Erik asked, pushing the rolled up canvas into the corner of the wooden frame. He was a permanent fixture in the market, and no one seemed to mind anymore if he left his things ready to be set up the day after next rather than carting them home

"The train came in about ten this morning. I wanted to make sure I had a place to stay before I worried about eating, and then I got caught up in everything there is to see and do here. I didn't even realize it was supper until you mentioned it just now."

Erik hummed and began to walk down the street with the young man following beside. "My name is de Changy, by the way. Erik de Changy," the boy said, beginning to offer his hand when the taller man rounded on him and gave him a look so hard it made his blood run cold.

"What sort of game are you playing, boy?"

De Changy gaped and struggled to find his words under the man's hard gaze, trying his best not to look as intimidated as he felt. "No games, Monsieur! I thought since you were kind enough offer me supper you ought to know my name."

"Your parents. Are they the Comte and Comptesse de Changy?"

"Yes, they are. Do you know of them?"

Erik was still for a long moment, clenching his jaw tightly under the leather mask. "Why are you hear, de Changy?" He asked, spitting out the last word almost as if it were bitter on the tongue.

"I… Well. When I said they were my parents I don't suppose that is entirely true. They raised me, but on my fifteenth birthday they gave me a letter that was written by my birth mother. In it she said she had come to America. I've been trying to find her for some time now. The records show she landed on Ellis Island not long after I was born, and that she moved here to New Orleans not long after that. I was hoping to meet her before I start university..."

"Where is it you'll be studying," Erik asked after a long moment of silence.

"I've been accepted to study medicine at Harvard up in Boston, but I also have an offer here in New Orleans from Tulane I'm considering. Why?" The boy pried, tipping his head some.

How had he not seen it? Erik had known there was something familiar about the boy… surely this was just some strange, cruel joke played by the Changy family? Anya had never mentioned leaving a note. But those eyes… those were Anya's eyes, the same one she shared with her sister and the same ones she had guessed she had passed on to their son.

If this was truly their son, could Anya know? What if the boy wasn't satisfied with them? What if he decided to move to Boston? Anya had been a wreck for weeks after giving the boy up; there was no telling how she would respond to his return and sudden disappearance again. But how could he turn the boy away when he had already invited him to supper? And how could he deny the boy a chance to know his real parents? Erik had wanted a child to prove to himself he was a better parent than his mother had been, that unselfish love was possible. He had wanted to see the light in Anya's eyes whenever she thought about what they had created through their love. If this was a chance for that to happen, it was worth taking.

Without answering the boy's question, Erik continued walking. The house wasn't far from the market, sitting on a quiet street with several other modestly sized homes pressed close to one another as was typical for the city. Anya and Erik were by far the quietest couple on the street, with no children although Anya ran a dancing school from the den during the days. Several people nodded to Erik as he passed, and the man nodded back; New Orleans was a social town, but its people knew when to pry and when to keep their questions to themselves. After fifteen years the people Erik saw daily had learned not to ask about his oddities, although sometimes Erik wondered whether it was out of respect for his privacy or out of the fear of the voodoo that had supposedly taken his face. Either way, Erik was pleased enough with the arrangement.

Striding up the steps to the porch, Erik let himself inside without regard to the young man following him, who waited politely on the street to be invited in. Anya peered out of the kitchen and smiled to her husband, hanging up her apron. She was as beautiful at forty eight as she had ever been. Long, lean, and as charmingly disproportioned as any proper dancer, Anya lifted up on her toes to greet her husband with a kiss. "You're just in time. I roasted the chicken Madame Simon gave us, it just came out of the oven."

"It smells wonderful," Erik promised, returning the kiss. "Set a third place at the table, we have company."

Anya raised a brow. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?" She accused; occasionally she would invite one of her dancers to stay for dinner when she knew there was no meal waiting for her at home, but Erik usually preferred that Anya wrap up the meal and send their guest on their way."

Ignoring her remark, Erik moved back into the doorway to beckon the boy inside while Anya moved back into the kitchen to bring out a third place setting to the table. The young man stepped inside just as Anya was moving out of the kitchen. Upon seeing him, Anya dropped the plate and glass both and gasped audibly. The glass rolled aside but the plate shattered, yet Anya made no move to clean up the shards of porcelain

Erik de Changy bowed some and smiled politely. "I hope you don't mind my presence, Madame. Your husband invited me to share supper, and I was hungry enough to agree."

"Anya, this is Erik de Changy, from Paris," Erik introduced, and Anya moved to gaze between them incredulously. "I am Erik Rameau, and this is my wife Anya."

It was the younger Erik's turn to stare. "…Did you say Rameau? Anya Rameau?"

"The one and the same," the masked man confirmed.

"How old are you, Erik?" Anya demanded suddenly, sounding more defensive than she had meant.

"Fifteen, Madame."

"And… And your parents? Surely they're not the Comte and Comptesse de Changy?"

"The same," the young man answered.

"What brings the son of a Comte to New Orleans?" Anya asked after a moment, barely louder than a whisper.

"I've come looking for the woman who gave birth to me, Madame," the young man explained, pulling an aged envelope from his coat. Anya instantly recognized her penmanship on the front of the letter, spelling out her son's given name. "She left me a letter, explaining why she had given me to the de Changys."

In an instant, Anya strode forward and embraced her son tightly. "My boy," she whispered. "My beautiful boy…"

The pair stood like this for a long moment before Anya stepped back and wiped at her eyes, suddenly realizing how mad she must have seemed. She had known of his existence for his whole life, but surely he had only just learned of hers. "You're even more handsome than I thought you would be. And so tall! Why, you're nearly as tall as I am."

"Was my father tall?" The young man ventured, and Anya smiled over to Erik.

"See for yourself."

When the younger man knit his brow, his resemblance to Anya was uncanny. "But in the letter you said my father had died."

"I was mistaken. It's rather a long story," she explained, unable to take her eyes off the boy, this perfect piece of herself and Erik. "…Did they treat you well? The de Changys, they were good to you?"

"They were wonderful," the young man admitted. "They never once mentioned how I came into their family, not until they gave me the letter. But… part of me always knew. My hair was a little darker, and nobody in the family has eyes like mine as far back as I could trace. Not to mention I'm the only one of my brothers Papa doesn't have to pay to send to university. I have a full scholarship to Harvard and Tulane."

"The de Changy line was never known for its brains," Erik remarked, earning him a chastising look from his wife.

"But they're good people," she added. "Very good people. Look at the mess I've made… Sit, both of you, and I'll clean this up and set another place."

Erik talked more over dinner than Anya had ever seen him speak with a stranger during all their years together. He was inquisitive and answered the young man's questions honestly and with little objection. Anya brought out their best bottle of wine, the irony that they had come all the way from France and now considered French wine an indulgence not escaping the younger Erik for a moment.

The three drank and talked until the moon was high in the sky and Anya's yawn alerted them all to the hour.

"I suppose I should leave the two of you to bed," the young man remarked, and Anya shook her head.

"You're not going out there this late. This isn't a town you want to be strolling in at night," she remarked, and Erik chuckled.

"She's nearly as superstitious as the rest of this town."

"I am not. And anyway, we have a room we never use. Stay the night, I'll make beignets and coffee in the morning, and maybe Erik could give you a tour of the city."

When the boy looked to Erik, the masked man nodded his agreement. More and more studying in New Orleans was beginning to seem like a far better option than moving to Boston. "All right," he smiled, "I'd love to stay."

* * *

**Author's Note:** If I could give each and every one of my readers a hug, I would. Thank you for taking the time to read my story, and thank you even more if you've ever taken the time to review. It really means the world to me. If you enjoyed this story even half as much as I enjoyed writing it, please give my other Phantom stories a chance. For the moment, Letting Go will be my last Phantom story... but I am open to requests! I'm also working on an original story on my fictionpress account, if you're interested in that sort of thing. My username there is the same as it is here. Again, I thank you all from the bottom of my heart, especially those of you who have been reading my Phantom stories since the beginning. It's been a fun ride!

- Erin


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